


The Hope in You

by EpiphanyWisps



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angsty Schmoop, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Graphic Description, Horror, Humor, M/M, Macabre, Masturbation, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: Vomiting, Violence, Voice Kink, blind!cas, tw: torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:29:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EpiphanyWisps/pseuds/EpiphanyWisps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Destiel AU where Castiel is 28, human, and Dean is 30. Castiel grew up in a religious hunter family with a single older sibling; Gabriel. Castiel stays mostly at home on hunts because of his disability, home safe where wards keep everything evil out.</p><p>Hunters from all over catch wind of a strange string of events that are reminiscent of a case in the past that had gone awry, one that had been both a retaliation and a trap. Despite the doom and gloom hype the Winchester brothers decide to go anyway. They expect a mob, but find a massacre and a wounded blind man locked inside a heavily guarded armoire instead. </p><p>They keep him because it’s either that or kill him, which they also discuss (whether he’s of more use dead than alive because he’s blind and can’t possibly be a decent hunter, though Castiel tries). And Castiel's new life with them isn't exactly the easiest to endure. There are many faults and problems to work though, leading to a few arguments and many mistakes.</p><p>Eventually, Dean finds himself falling in love with the socially awkward wanna-be hunter.</p><p>But is it possible something they can't ever hope to kill is still lurking in the shadows, just waiting for them to lower their guard?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I will have to add tags and characters as I go because I don't know right now. Also, this is basically with all the events in mind, but removing Castiel from them. 
> 
> Sam and Deans till stopped the Apocolypse, they still stopped Eve, and the Leviathans have still come in from Purgatory. The only difference is Castiel.
> 
> Still undecided if I will add angels at all. Right now there are none.

“Come on, Cas, nap time’s over. If you don’t hurry up and go wash up for dinner I won’t make your plate.”

The lights in the room are still off and the only light peering in is from the only light in the hallway. The young man underneath the sheets groans and shifts under the thick comforter, yawning and trying to bury himself tighter in the sheets. He knows he’s just going to be bothered again though and resolves to pull back the looser sheet that he’s got wrapped tightly around himself. He keeps his eyes closed and his mind is hazy and unfocused. He feels like he could easily go back to sleep. And when he speaks his voice is laden with the grogginess of it. “I’m not a child. I’m perfectly capable of making my own plate, Gabriel.”

Gabriel chuckles where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and leans down to ruffle his brother’s hair, making it look messier than it already is. “I dunno’, bro, you’ve been known to try and put things on your plate that’s not on the menu.”

Castiel buries his face in his pillow, groaning. “Gabriel, that was _one time_.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure it was _just_ dish soap.” There’s a clear note of humor in Gabriel’s voice despite his teasing. It’s tinged with the fondness from the old memory of their startled mother and Castiel’s confusion at the dinner table. Gabriel gives Castiel a gentle pat over the top of his head, trying to smooth away some of the stray strands of hair that isn’t pinned between his forehead and the pillow. “And if I don’t look out for my little brother, who will?”

“ _I_ will,” Castiel presses, a bit exaggerated but no malice in his tone. He opens his eyes halfway, a ghostly hue of blue peeking through as he works up a smile in the direction of his brother’s voice. “I’m blind; that doesn’t mean I’m completely helpless.”

“Maybe not completely,” Gabriel repeats and stands, helping his brother to sit up on the mattress. “But being the awesome older brother that I am, I like to help you out anyway.”

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

They take a moment in silence while Gabriel waits to make sure Castiel is actually going to stay awake, and behind them in the dim light the bulb in the hallway flickers, briefly. It goes relatively unnoticed. Gabriel pokes a bit more fun with his little brother to rouse him more, making a comment about his hair and tickling his sides like he used to when Castiel was younger and in need of attention, who in return feels for him with his hands and punches him in the arm. Gabriel laughs at that too, playfully, and ducking the second time around.

Gabriel catches Castiel’s wrists and holds them gently, trying to be serious. “Mom’s setting the table, so you have to be quick. Go get washed up, ok? I’ll tell dad you’re awake.” Gabriel let’s Castiel’s wrists go, grips his brother’s shoulder and squeezes before he stands. “Don’t go back to sleep, alright? Or I won’t be responsible for any missed desserts!”

The light flickers again when Gabriel walks past it, this time catching his eye. He stops, wiggles the bottom of the holder where the plastic container sits against the wall.The light flickers again as he’s watching it, and Gabriel waits to count the beats. He waits long enough that Castiel notices his presence standing still in the hallway. He cocks his head at the doorway, asking, “Is something wrong, Gabriel?”

The light doesn’t flicker again. “Not really,” he says in Castiel’s direction. “I think this bulb’s almost done for though.”

“In the hallway?”

Gabriel nods even though he knows it’s a useless gesture in front of Castiel. “Yeah, it was flickering. I can change it after dinner if you want so you don’t have to deal with it later.”

“It would be greatly appreciated, thank you.”

Castiel is already up and standing beside his bed, his hair a mess and his clothes disheveled by the time Gabriel actually leaves. He hears the receding footsteps of his brother making his way back downstairs to the kitchen and sighs, running a hand through his hair and feeling around for the walking stick he keeps next to the nightstand beside his bed. He almost knocks over the bottle of water he keeps there and curses silently to himself, hand over his mouth instantly and praying a soft apology to the Lord for his obscenity.

The door is still open when he walks through the threshold, his cane in hand. The hall light is also still on. It flickers, only once, when Castiel passes it, illuminating him like a mark across his back. It goes unnoticed to Castiel, and he takes his time in walking down the hall to the bathroom with one hand sliding against the wall and the other guiding with his cane. He slows when he passes his brother’s room though, feeling like somehow someone else is in there. Then a low clicking that lasts only a second.

He stops. “Hello?” His thoughts go to Gabriel, who he knows is downstairs and quite possibly harassing their mother to let him start eating early. So it shouldn’t be Gabriel. But it can’t be anything else—nothing harmful anyway, considering they’ve every known magic and ward drawn or cast inside their home to insure their lives. He tries to call out anyway. “Gabriel, are you still up here?” He walks into the threshold of his brother’s doorway, peering inside with unseeing eyes and listening intently for anything amiss. But he doesn’t hear anything else.

He turns and shakes his head with a sigh, continuing down the hallway and trying to dismiss the unusual bit of tension knotting between his shoulder blades.

The warm smell of mixed meat and vegetables with herbs and spices greets him from the stairwell as he passes it. It reminds him that he’s actually really hungry, and that he’d been hungry before he’d even gone to lay down.

“I really need to find a better sleeping schedule,” he mutters to himself, and promises silently in his mind that he’ll do better in the upcoming days to regulate his sleep.

He doesn’t bother to turn on the light once he’s standing in front of the bathroom door, considering how little it will aid him in his chores. He can’t tell the difference between light and the absence of. But he’s fine with that because he’s used to the blanketing darkness all around him.

He steps inside and sets his cane to rest against the sink while he feels the familiar spot beside the faucet for his toothbrush. It’s in the holder exactly where it always is, as is the toothpaste tube in which he gathers next from the lower shelf of the medicine cabinet. He’s glad because Gabriel likes to play tricks on him sometimes and is known to find hiding places for his things. Today’s a pretty average day, all things considered.

He’s already begun to brush his teeth when he hears the sound of his father’s voice ricocheting up the stairs.

“Are you almost finished, Castiel?” His voice comes in as mellow as it always is. It’s reassuring to hear no notes of anger in his voice, especially since Castiel knows he _should_ be angry for him oversleeping and missing church, and also because he also took a nap later in the day and nearly missed dinner. And he would have had it not been for Gabriel.

Castiel hurries to finish brushing his bottom row of teeth before spitting out the froth and yelling back, “Yes, I’m coming!”

Which isn’t entirely true because he’s still got his top row and tongue to brush, not to mention he still has to wash his hands. He gets to work on that right away, chuckling at the disappointed whine from Gabriel he can hear all the way from downstairs. It’s entertaining at best and brings a smile to his face. He finishes with his teeth and uses a small disposable cup from the metal dispenser to fill and rinse his mouth out with.

But then something seems to change. His brows crease as the atmosphere around him alters, his expression a clear sweep of confusion as he wipes his mouth and sets the cup down. The air around him feels heavier than usual and is filled with nothing but silence; stagnant even in the small room he’s in.

The tension in his shoulders settles deeper into his muscles and he strains to listen, reaching out with his other senses and hesitant fingertips to feel around him for any disturbances. But it’s silent, and nothing is in the room with him.

He thinks maybe it’s nothing more than his ears playing tricks with him. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately and eating is something he often forgets so he’s sure he’s probably not that up to par with reality right now. Still, he grabs for his cane just in case. And if it’s Gabriel sneaking up on him he’s going to get one hell of a wakeup call for scaring him.

But then a thump resounds, a noise from somewhere in the hallway. There’s a sound much like a single footstep and the distinct creak of one of the stairs on the staircase, a few disorienting clicks vibrating through the air.

He doesn’t realize it, but the house has gone dark.

He doesn’t know that there’s something standing off kilter and leering in at him from the darkness of the hallway.

 _Something’s wrong_. Castiel swallows thickly and stands there stupidly for a moment, locked in place when the hand holding his cane beginning to shake. He really doesn’t like how wrong it feels now where he is, feeling that somehow something isn’t right but unable to place exactly what it is that he’s feeling is so wrong. He panics a little, suddenly overwhelmed with an urge to just _get out_.

But he feels, somewhat morbidly, like it would be the worst idea in the world to walk out into the hallway right now.

There’s another click, only this time it’s against the doorframe of the bathroom door; Castiel nearly chokes on his spit. A sharp cry sounds throughout the house from somewhere on the main floor, a choked sob and a second guttural scream—his _mother_ , he realizes belatedly once the initial shock wears off. _It’s his mother screaming_.

“Mom,” he whispers under a heavy gasp, heart hammering in his chest and swallowing around the tightness in his throat. He grips his cane tighter and tries to keep his calm, preparing himself to somehow make it downstairs to help whatever situation the household has been thrust into.

He’s about to run out despite how his mind is screaming not to, he’s about to disregard his fears and just throw that awful foreboding feeling of walking out in the back of his mind when he hears the thundering noise of hurried feet clamoring up the stairs. The aged wood of the side railing creaks under the pressure. And Castiel’s blood runs cold with the unknowingness of it.

Something cold and solid knocks into his chest and forces him to the ground. Something sharp slices into his arm and grazes his shoulder. He can’t tell what it is that’s hovering over his fallen form, but it can’t possibly be human, and definitely not his brother. Something wet and goo-like drips down onto his chin and the side of his face. It slides down the side of his throat and covers the front of his grey t-shirt. The consistency of it is unlike anything he’s ever felt and all he can register is _wrong_.

He swings his cane up with resounding force, startled when he feels it knock through and pierce something. He’s not sure if it’s similar to flesh or something else, not sure of the silhouette of the thing attacking him or the size of it. But he knows just by how otherworldly it feels in the room that’s it’s not to be taken lightly.

Castiel tries to fight and feels his limbs connect with nothing. It’s like fighting himself, like he’s really just still in bed alone and in his mind and fighting some strange nightmare. It’s difficult to explain; even to himself.

He gets a gash on the side of his face and a few more on his side and legs before he hears panting in the doorway. And suddenly, that heavy weight of oppression lifts and flutters away like a fog over the sea.

There’s a loud thump and the crack of wood splitting, followed by the muffled cries with hoarse shouting from downstairs and Castiel really doesn’t like it. Heaving breaths near his face before someone is grabbing for Castiel and hauling him to his feet.

“We have to hurry.” It’s Gabriel, and he doesn’t sound at all well.

“Gabriel—”

Gabriel shushes him, looping an arm around Castiel’s waist to steady his body against his own and swapping whatever weapon he’d been holding into his other hand. Castiel doesn’t get a good enough feel of it to know what it is. He assumes it might just be something blunt he’s picked up from the kitchen.

“Be quite,” Gabriel whispers cautiously. “We have to get out of here; _now_.”

Castiel doesn’t voice it, but Gabriel’s vulnerable tone really makes him feel sick. He’s also feeling a bit weak in the knees and numb to most of the pain he knows he should be feeling. He’s high off of adrenaline and trying not to lose his footing altogether as Gabriel half drags, half helps him out and into the hallway. He tries to take them downstairs but there’s nothing but loud noises and haunting sounds from below the stair well and Gabriel’s hand tightens around him.

Their course alters from the ‘ _let’s get out_ ’ route to the ‘ _hide_ ’ one in a matter of seconds when Gabriel’s breathing changes and they suddenly pull a hard right. Gabriel is hurrying him, pulling him along a little like a rag doll now. And Castiel doesn’t have the time or clear state of mind to process where they end up until his leg bumps up against something solid and something else falls to the floor. He hears Gabriel hiss out a curse and pick whatever it was up, shoving it against Castiel’s chest for him to carry and ushering him backwards into a much smaller space.

It’s then that Castiel realizes, once panel doors close and Gabriel is huddled down with him in the corner of this small space, that they’re in a closet. And he’s still gripping the water bottle Gabriel had handed him. Knowingness dawns on him. That makes this closet his.

“Shit,” Gabriel mutters under his breath. He keeps his hand firm over Castiel’s back, moving to place his other over the back of his brother’s head. He huffs out a sigh, holding Castiel to him. Castiel wonders whether it’s more to comfort _him_ , or himself. “This is so messed up.”

Castiel still isn’t aware of what’s going on. “Gabriel,” he whispers against the neck of his shirt, hopeful that he’ll answer him this time, “what’s going on? Are mom and dad alright?” It’s a stupid question, but he has to keep faith.

Gabriel doesn’t answer him right away, and that has him feeling very weary. What could be so bad that he can’t talk about it? “Gabriel, please. I want to know what’s going on. Why won’t you tell me?”

But Gabriel doesn’t answer, and silence befalls them. They sit in fear not even five minutes when Gabriel finally speaks up. “I’m sorry, Cas.” His sounds the most sincere he’s ever been, resolved even, like he’s just made up his mind about something serious. He leans in close to Castiel’s ear. “Whatever you do, don’t scratch the door. Don’t scream, and keep your hands over your ears.”

Castiel finds dread in his words. He’s not sure exactly what he’s referring to. And when he continues, his words make even less sense.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure it will work, but I don’t know what else to do. We can’t go downstairs and it’s too high to jump out the window. One of us has to make it out.” Then he adds, in afterthought, “I’m really sorry, little brother.”

Gabriel pushes the doors open and pulls Castiel with him. There’s an old armoire that Castiel keeps that Gabriel opens. He shoves his brother inside as quickly as he can even against his brother’s protesting and searched the drawers, telling Castiel to stay put and to keep quiet. He finds his own old bike chain that Castiel had confiscated from his last birthday, using it with his own weapon to tie through the handles and keep it locked tight. He puts the pad lock he finds without a key on it too, for added security.

Castiel tries to call out to him, tries to ask him to at least tell him what he’s doing. He feels horribly cramped inside the small space and alienated from them. But Gabriel doesn’t answer. Castiel can hear his voice reciting what sounds like an incantation, his voice low and shaky but firm against the strange words. It almost sounds like a hymn to Castiel, like one he might expect to hear in angel’s unison.

Only this one has dark, ominous notes in it.

He thinks of church as tears roll down his cheeks and grips the sides of his head in feign attempt to block everything out. He’s covered his ears just as Gabriel had instructed, but it doesn’t serve him quite as well as he had hoped. There’s an awful thump against the door of the armoire, followed by a second, third, and fourth. There’s also strange noises and scratching, voices and a whole stream of things that slip past the barrier of Castiel’s hands that make him want to scream. He pushes his hands tighter over his ears.

There are so many things going through his mind, so many horrible scenarios that he suspects could be happening to his family right as he hid. He thinks he might die in this space, that his family might find a way to flee and have no choice but to leave him behind, or that they will all die and leave him to a fate far worse. He tries not to think though for the most part, because it hurts.

The armoire is rattling now, what sounds like loud hissing coming from the other side of the age old wood. The tremors reopen bits of his wounds and he scrambles while still trying to block out the sounds, no doubt painting the inside of the walls red with his blood. He’s trying to scramble farther from the doors as they push and pull. He doesn’t know what to do other than what Gabriel had told him.

He knows it won’t matter to have hope. But he closes his lids over blind eyes anyway, and prays that things will turn out ok.


	2. Finding Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than I expected.
> 
>  **Edit** :  
> I went back and edited the last scene. Had to fix a few things. I originally wrote it when I was far too tired and really shouldn't have, because some of the connections got lost. Hopefully it's a smoother read now.

It’s been a week’s time and it’s during the dead of night when the hunters decide to check into the scene of the crime. They anticipate whatever grisly scene might await them, a lifetime of experience at their backs to guide them. But as they break the lock on the door and stumble inside they quickly realize how different things are about to go.

The most unsettling thing about the environment inside the cozy Victorian-style home they’ve forced themselves into is most definitely the smell. It permeates the inside of the entirety of the house like a blanket of fog, nearly tangible in some spots where the scent is the thickest. Blood coats many of the surfaces that are visible to them; some of it splashed along the walls and sprayed across nearly all of the furniture and pooling in the creases of cushions. There is no power in the house and no light besides their flashlights, so neither of them is quite sure of color when trying to discern from blood and the natural stain of the surfaces. Whatever color things were before though—it’s now diluted in a twisted mix of unsavory brown and red.

They pan their lights around the stairway landing, the hallway, and the entrance to the living room. The inside to this house is definitely the farthest from being aesthetically pleasing in any way no matter which way they look. It’s filthy and gory and neither feels too enthusiastic to begin their search.

There’s blood and entrails and little bits of fleshy parts splayed over the surface of hardwood under their boots. It continues on into the living room where most of the blood has already been absorbed into the carpet and upholstery. There’s also what resembles trail-like streams and dollops of watery, blood-black goo lining some areas.

And that’s a whole other story neither of them are ready to analyze just yet. Not just because of potential Leviathan issues, but because it just _looks_ disgusting.

“Anyone home?” Dean calls out, somewhat comically with a crooked smirk that widens when Sam shoots him a stern look. “What? Just checking. How else are we gonna’ know if someone’s still here?”

“Yeah, like whatever creature was here that might _still_ be here.”

Dean shrugs his shoulders, shifting his footing. “Oh come on, Sammy. I’m sure we can take ‘em. Isn’t that what we have weapons for?”He holds up his handgun stocked full of silver bullets and gives it a little shake. “There isn’t a damn thing out there so far that could take us down. I don’t see why this should be any different. Monsters fear _us_ , not the other way around.”

Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes, tries to ignore his brother’s prideful brashness and moves on farther into the hallway. He gestures for Dean to check the living room without speaking. He’s trying as it is not to breathe in too deep. The scent of iron is heavy in the stagnant air, and smells of nothing but death and decay. It’s not exactly Sam’s favorite place to be in, he silently hopes that they’ll be done with this soon and be on their way. Or that he gets used to the smell. Because damn.

They scan the area to assess the extent of the damage, looking for anything out of place amongst all the macabre that’s been scattered about. Dean staggers into a few things in the darkness, nearly tripping over an arm that’s propped halfway under the wooden coffee table. And in that split second through the dark and the dimness of his light his mind almost registers the thing as something coming towards him across the floor. He lets a loud curse slip past his lips and recoils, nearly falls back into an armchair full of blood as he tries to right himself. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam whispers hotly from the hallway.

“I’m being trolled by dead people in here, okay?” Dean whispers back just as heated, kicking the severed arm completely under the couch where he doesn’t have to see it. “Excuse me for having an honest reaction. I thought it was alive, ok? It’s pitch black in here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Dean walks over to the entrance of the room and tries one of the light switches on the wall with a hope that at least something will work. It doesn’t though and he moves on to try the phone and TV, but they’re just as dead and useless.

“The power’s completely out,” He calls back to Sam as he smacks his palm against the side of the television. “Wires must’ve been cut or something.”

Sam doesn’t comment about the volume of his voice or the noise of his hand against the TV but he does give a grunt in response from somewhere in the hallway, like he’s only half paying attention and mostly engrossed in whatever else he’s got going on. Dean has to wonder if he’s found any gory surprises.

Dean’s got his own to sort through. And the living room is an absolute mess. The more space the light from his flashlight touches the worse it gets. And if he had any faith before that someone had made it out alive it’s all but gone now. There’s no way with this much gore that anyone had been left alive. And that’s being generous. “I don’t know, Sam. I somehow doubt we’ll find any live ones.”

He looks around. There’s nothing particularly exciting about the living room despite how bathed in blood it is, despite the knocked over side table and broken lamp and cocked loveseat that’s overturned and ripped along the side. That’s normal when you consider murder happened somewhere down the line. It’s a common that both hunters are familiar with in their line of work. Dean doesn’t see any special reason to investigate, even if the mess around him is a tad overkill. To each his own, he supposes.

There’s nothing but the mystery goo left to poke at. And lucky for him there’s a nice thick string of it at his feet where he stands by the coffee table. It’s disgusting to look at though, and he sighs like it’s a chore, bending down to nudge at some of the thicker parts with the end of his gun. He doesn’t expect it to spread over and seep into the carpet as easily as it does, almost like that simple touch had changed it somehow. It looks a little too thick in consistency to seep through like that. But it’s surprising how blood-like in quality it actually is. It’s different than typical blood though, thicker like blood that’s already begun to coagulate, but blood that’s not entirely aired out. Like strings of syrup, maybe; poison even, in the blood. Something that lingers and festers even in open spaces and without warmth. 

He stands and moves into the hallway to where he’d last heard Sam. “Hey.” He finds his brother checking some of the floorboards with the tip of his boot. “You find any bloody, goo-like stuff out here?”

Sam turns to face him. Blood and bits of entrails fan out under his boot when he presses down harder on the aged wood. “Mostly under the floorboards. I think some of it must’ve leaked through.” He hesitates, scrunching his brow. “There’s some on the walls too though, which is kind of weird because—”

“ _Consistency, right?_ ”

Sam nods, aiming his light toward one of the strings of it that’s draped and a little runny across the wallpaper on the walls. There are spots where the liquid is chunky and unmoving, situated perfectly in place while still looking wet and unchanged by the air. “I thought maybe it might be the kind of residue the Leviathan usually leave behind at first. But this is different somehow, I think. It’s not as dark, for one thing.”

On the wall it kind of reminds Dean of a freshly drying drop of glue. Not so much like syrup anymore. “I don’t get it either. They’re both kind of watered down and dark, which made me think the same thing at first. But Levi-goo is more like a stain than this stuff. This,” Dean points to where Sam’s light is shining on the wall, “is more like blood. Thick blood.” He pauses, mirroring Sam’s muddled expression. “But also _not_ like blood.” 

“Yeah, it doesn’t make much sense. Nothing else that I can think of bleeds like this. Humans certainly don’t.”

None of it makes sense though, really; punishment without a crime, a crime without a perpetrator, and no proper remnants to backtrack with. Not to mention the amount of brutality in it all. It’s the kind that one normally displays through vengeance. Only this place, so far, is relatively clean of any possible suspects. There’s nothing to suggest what did this aside from the clear signs of struggle from its victims. And the overall eeriness it’s left behind is something Sam and Dean haven’t felt in a long time. It’s more tangible than most cases they’ve taken like this.

“Did you find any bodies yet?” Sam asks.

Dean wears a light grimace. “There’s some guy on the other side of the sofa in the living room,” he says, nonchalant, “but that’s been overturned, and the guys missing most of his dangly parts; including his…yeah.”

“Yeah, I really didn’t need to know that.”

“Hey, you asked.” Dean shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders up high, a mock of a grin on his face as he continues his trek down the hall. The scenery gets progressively worse as he goes until he’s stumbling over more body parts and things that _gush_ , and he’s loathe to look down at what he’s crunching over. He can only imagine what the interior really looks like without all the darkness that’s obscuring it. His flashlight can only help him see so much, it’s certainly not helping with the bigger picture here. Just bits and pieces. Literally.

“What a mess,” he says, nearly tripping again. Only this time it’s over something hard and something heavy. And ok, _that_ might actually be a body. Or part of one. “Haven’t seen a massacre like this since Texas Chainsaw. There’s blood and guts friggin’ everywhere, man. Half the time I don’t even know what I’m stepping on.”

“Happy thoughts,” Sam offers. “Maybe it’s a bunch of rubber snakes covered in syrup and cool-aid, and we’re dealing with a Trickster.” _Albeit a very morbid one._

Dean scrunches his nose when he reaches the end of the hallway, shining his light more ahead of him than at his feet. “Somehow I don’t think that this is a trick.”

There’s something particularly acrid wafting in from what he thinks is the kitchen, and it’s so not expected that Dean actually feels the pull in his gag reflex. He pulls the sleeve of his jacket up to cover his nose and mouth and coughs to clear his throat in hopes that the burn of bile in the back of his throat will subside. He concentrates on the denim smell of the worn garment before walking inside and instantly finds what’s causing the smell. His stomach turns and that pull in his throat returns. He can’t help but to cringe.

What he guesses was meant to be dinner at some point is all that’s left. Only now it’s all over the kitchen and beginning to rot. Not to mention that there’s blood and bits of _human_ mixed in. The combination is not something either Winchester usually has to deal with on any particular case, so this a surprising punch to the gut. Dismembered humans, yeah; rotting food, no. There are standards. And this hunt is gradually tipping over the line of ‘things that can be tolerated with a straight face’.

“Meatloaf, my favorite.” Dean manages with a stiff smile, using dry humor to try and take his mind off of the building urge to empty his stomach. He gives a brief glance around for anything out of the ordinary before turning to Sam, who is slowly walking up beside him and looking equally as green and with the same look on his face Dean suspected he’d had just moments ago. Dean turns back to the mess and takes the sleeve of his jacket away, tries to breathe mostly through his mouth. He doesn’t care that it makes him sound nasally when he speaks. “Looks like the family dinner was interrupted by someone.”

“Or some _thing_ ,” Sam suggests. He eyes the upper half of a body that’s lying halfway under the table. It’s female and missing both arms and legs, and most of the clothes covering her body are torn and pulled apart. She’s been decapitated.

Sam moves over to her body and bends down to look for any bite marks or wounds. The heart’s missing, but then again so are most of the other major organs, including the tongue and a few teeth. Whoever she is, this looks more like a hate crime than an actual necessity. It doesn’t look like she’d been killed for feeding purposes and she’s clearly not on display.

“The other guy was like that too. No arms or legs. Still had a head though,” Dean mumbles. He’s already moved to the counter where can inspect all the dirty little things that are spread out. Sam can hear him open what sounds like a microwave door and make a disgusted noise, muttering something about ‘was that really necessary’ and slamming it closed. Sam has to remind himself that now’s not the time to laugh at how dramatic Dean sounds.

It’s a little hard to think over all the stink in the room. Dean tries to keep his mind centered on the task at hand. Because the sooner they get done the sooner they can leave. “So, what do you think? Werewolf? Wraith? Ah…vengeful spirit?”

Sam shakes his head. There’s nothing here really to suggest a werewolf or any common beast. Aside from two bodies that are missing most of their parts there are no distinct marks and no puncture wounds that are specific to a Wraith. There’s a hole in this woman’s chest and smaller, bullet like wounds below her collarbone, but it doesn’t look like an ordinary wound for a Wraith. There’s also no ectoplasm, so no spirits.

“I don’t think so. Besides, werewolves and wraiths aren’t exactly famous for stuff like this. I mean, since when do they cause a scene of this magnitude? Enough murders like this and more hunters are bound to catch wind of it. And these creatures aren’t stupid. I don’t think whatever did this is either.”

“Eh, I guess.” Dean lifts a blood-soaked rag up off the doorknob of the pantry door, completely blasé about it as he drops it to the floor. He’s finally getting used to the smell—which he couldn’t be more thankful for right now. He steadies his flashlight under his armpit and readies his gun before he’s turning the faded brass handle and opening the door. The variations of towels, blankets, and the old sweeper inside are probably the most normal things they’ve found thus far. It’s all clean and neat and surprisingly void of blood. It’s the exact opposite of everything else in the house. It’s odd, but otherwise ordinary.

“Vampire, then? Ghouls?” There’s not much that he can think of off-hand that could be possible of something like this.

“Too much blood left behind,” Sam says, effectively shooting down more legitimate guesses and another even when Dean suggests a starving Djinn at the edge of sanity.

“Well then, maybe it’s not the blood they were after. Maybe it’s a statement. Or a meaty appetizer, however creepy that sounds.”

But whatever made this left a _lot_ behind.

Dean absentmindedly wanders over to inspect what could be hiding in the blood splattered sink, and Sam isn’t exactly curious to follow. He stands instead and walks over to the china cabinet where the glass is cracked but unbroken and shining with a little light from the moon hanging high above the only window in the room. The splatters of the black-blood substance look even less desirable over the pearl colored painted wood, not with the accompanying smell of the rot. He tries to stay focused, rooting through all possible knowledge that could pertain to this, of all the things they’ve faced. He even considers Vetala and the possibility of hybrids. There’s an answer here somewhere, some piece of evidence they just haven’t found yet; something that will tell them exactly what it is they should be hunting. There’s just the tiny issue of actually finding whatever that crucial piece of evidence is.

Sam ponders the possibilities, absent mindedly watching his brother in the reflection of the glass as he walks about the room. Dean is still rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, pulling drawers out and relocating small kitchen appliances only to find tiny bits of gutty jelly and leftovers. And Sam soon finds himself distractedly amused by how quickly his brother’s OCD for cleanliness kicks in. He’s moving the cleaner things while touching as little as possible and cringing at the things that aren’t as pristine, scowling at any bit of unsanitary that touches his skin. It’s a silly thing he knows Dean will never admit to having, and that makes it ten times more amusing. At one point Dean even goes back to the pantry to grab a clean towel to wipe his hands on.

Sam’s stuck now, trying so hard to think of all the things that could have caused this. He thinks of demons, too. But where would they find the time? Most demons they’ve met don’t give too much of a shit to be causing something like this. And they’d long since prevented the spread of the Croatoan virus. He almost thinks it’s a lost cause to try and piece these things together with how little they have to connect to anything else. Nothing inside looks enough like the doings of an otherworldly entity, and to most of the outside world this would probably just look like a brutal homicide. It’s luck that only hunters have come into the know about this so far. But Sam and Dean both know that will only last for a day or two before word gets out. They’ve only got tonight to safely gather any evidence they can and snuff out their tracks before the official authorities catch wind of what’s happened.

“This is ridiculous,” Sam states matter-of-factly as he’s walking over to the kitchen table. He rests his hands on the back of one of the wooden chairs alongside it, thinking hard and trying to picture the scene as a whole versus the little bits they’d gathered.

But then something occurs to him, pulls him to stand more upright. Maybe it’s not as complex as they had originally thought.

Dean’s still trying to keep his flashlight in one hand and wipe the oozing something he’d managed to get on his other hand _off_ onto a cleaner part of the towel he’s still holding when Sam speaks up, his epiphany on the horizon of what he believes could be the key they need to solve this.

“Or maybe it’s both.” He forgets that he hasn’t already explained the beginning of his little revelation and for a moment Dean doesn’t realize what he’s even talking about.

“Both? The hell are you talking about, Sammy?” There’s still slimy shit coating his fingers that he’d somehow managed to slip his hand into and it doesn’t want to rub off. He’s finding he’s not at all fond of whatever it is. It feels disgusting, and just thinking about how he’s going to have to eat if it doesn’t come off later has him feeling a bit green in the gills. And the towel is just as useless as the blood-soaked rag from the pantry handle and it infuriates him. “What the hell _is_ this stuff, anyway?” He mutters under his breath. He’s only half paying attention, a defined frown weighting his lips.

Sam thinks that one day it might stick that way. It almost makes him grin.

“This,” he announces, using his hands in illustration to both the room and the doorway where more blood, body parts, and entrails are scattered. “All of it; I think it’s a clue. Think of it more traditionally. There’s a few things that might fit someone…or some _thing_ to a certain part of the crime, but not completely. And that’s why it’s difficult to place a name to it. I was thinking maybe a hybrid, because of Eve, but…I don’t really think that’s plausible anymore considering she’s dead now. Or at least banished.” Sam remembers the intricate spell Bobby had to cast, and the blood both hunters had to sacrifice along with sacred phoenix ash just to send her back to her own dark little corner of Hell.

Dean is walking back over to Sam, who idly hands him the flask of holy water from his coat pocket to clean himself with without a single break in concentration, and continues.

“It might be a bit of a stretch, but, remember that case Bobby sent us on about a year ago? Something about a random string of murders and bloody deaths that didn’t add up?”

Dean perks up at that. And in a better mood now that his hands are once again relatively free of the unidentified muck. He caps the flask and hands it back to Sam. Dean knows exactly which case he’s talking about. “The one where the vics were all hunters?” He stops himself and hurries to add, “—not the one with the vengeful spirits and Deadly Sins though, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, nodding. “The one after that with the Shapeshifters and Rugarus.” They had suspected more than once throughout that case though, that a few more species had been thrown into the mix at some point.

After the Seven Deadly Sins outbreak there had been another incident, a hunter massacre that had caused enough damage to shake even the most seasoned hunters. The first time had been a warning of sorts, a promise of what was to come. The second time around had been a blatant stab against them; a uniting retaliation of sorts.

And it had been _bad_. Bad like this, in many aspects.

“You think it’s the same with this one?”

Sam shakes his head with a jerk of a shrug of his shoulders, surveying the room again with his flashlight. “Not sure. We don’t really have anything solid to go by yet, gore excluded.”

But they’ve only really checked the primary floor of the home so far. They’ve still got the upstairs to look over, and neither of the boys is looking forward to it much. There’s likely to be an even bigger mess in the bedrooms considering they’ve only found two members of the family so far, and if they’ve learned anything about monsters and peacock displays of revenge it’s that the bedroom is always the best place to make a statement. If revenge is even the motive here.

“Well, I think can we can consider mom and pop accounted for. Time to go find the rest of our happy little family,” Dean says as he’s heading back out into the hallway, eager to distance himself as much as possible from the stench of the kitchen he’d begun to accustom himself to. He’s walking towards the staircase, pauses at the landing, adding with an unsteady and apprehensive breath, “Well this is gonna’ be fun.”

There’s a mark leading up along the wooden railing that looks like it was made with a knife, a long carving up the side of the wall that’s a little farther up.There are bloody footsteps and slip marks leading all the way up, accompanied by the blood that’s all but stained the entirety of the wood of the railing. And when they make it to the top it’s surprisingly _not_ what they’d expected.

There are mostly dried or still drying patterns of blood and bloody goop on the wall just like the living room, and even more on the carpet lining the landing and the upstairs hallway. But it’s different; there’s actually a clear trail this time, marked by blood and some kind of tracks that resemble feet. It’s the first real sign of something they might be able to trace and it’s actually something they can identify by the toe indents and base of a foot, meaning that whatever was here and possibly doing the dragging was in human form at the very least.

There isn’t a single trace of a body anywhere in their line of view, but they know that’s probably because they’ll find the remaining family members in the bedrooms—bathroom even if this monster’s any kind of creative.

Sam takes count of the number of rooms from what he can see: three bedrooms and a single bathroom, which means this family was more than likely a family of four; a couple with two kids. It’s just finding the other two that’s going to be the fun part.

_Please don’t let them be children._

They both stand there at the top of the stairs, about to walk into the hallway when Dean stops, holding an arm out to block Sam from going ahead of him. “Hey, do you hear that?” He lowers his flashlight, looks off somewhere to the left where two of the four rooms are.

Sam turns his head in the direction Dean is facing, eyes and ears open, searching as if he can hope to _see_ what it is that Dean’s straining to hear. Mostly there’s only silence. “What’s it sound like? I don’t hear anything.”

Dean lifts his pointer finger to shush him, shaking his head. He’s worried they’ll both miss it if they muffle it with chatter. “Just listen.”

There’s a light kind of scratching that’s pulsating from somewhere and Dean is sure he isn’t the only one who’s able to hear it. The sound is very faint, but it can definitely be heard. He walks out a little more and into the hallway with slow and easy steps and just listens; trying to determine in which direction it sounds the clearest in. From what he can tell it’s coming from the far left room near the end of the hallway, back where the only unbroken light is. It flickers on upon being noticed, which doesn’t make any logical sense. It’s flickering sporadically, illuminating that entire corner. Sam and Dean exchange curious glances, not sure what to make of it.

The trail of blood that’s laid out in a jagged curve through the hallway veers off into that last room, to the one with the light. They decide to head that way as their first destination. But as soon as they take a step forward that light blinks out. They both take it as a warning. Dean looks over his shoulder just in case there’s something lurking.

He shrugs his shoulders and rights himself afterward.“Don’t think we’re gonna’ get a bigger sign than that, Sammy.”

They figure the best way to gain the element of surprise is by creepingdown the hallway and they do so with half clumsy footsteps, trying hard not to make any noise that could break their cover. The amount of blood soaking the carpet sounds wet under their heavy steps as they press down into the goop and stains. The sound of it seems amplified in the hallway. It’s the exact opposite of what they’re trying to achieve while they’re trying to sneak past the other two rooms, but they can’t do much to cover that. They cringe and hope it’s not disturbing any lingering ominous forces. And it’s not exactly the most graceful walk they take, but it’s brief and within a few awkward seconds they’re at the threshold.

It’s only now, when they’re looking around to make sure they’re still alone and able to press forward does Sam hear what Dean had previously mentioned; the low vibrations of something from somewhere inside. And it’s coming from inside the room. It’s different now though, a little; sounding more like the scraping of metal and with diminutive but distinct thumps of wood against wood.

Dean’s the first to peer inside the room, distractedly blocking Sam’s path. It’s a habit that engraved in him, one that he likes to blame on his big brother instinct. And usually Sam just rolls with it. But this time Sam’s just as eager to see what awaits them, and he’s craning his head to the left of Dean’s in the doorway and peering over and around to see inside. Eventually he just brushes past him.

There’s nothing overly extraordinary about the small bedroom if you look away from the face that there’s a circle of blood with splatters of it over everything. It’s a relatively small room so it’s not hard to guess what little force it would take to turn it into something morose for something like this. There’s a pillow on the floor and a lamp knocked over and beside the nightstand by the bed, all of which are saturated in the deep color of week old blood. The closet doors are still open as well, but it’s relatively empty inside. The clothes that still hang from the hangers are drenched black and stained in coppery brown. There’s black-blood goo in here as well, both in the room and in the closet, and especially along the trail from the hallway that bends to the right from the doorway.

The trail of blood seems to lead to something. They notice it at the same time, where the gore is the thickest.

It’s a rather expensive looking armoire that’s against the far right wall, along the same wall as the door. It’s bathed in blood and slathered in black-blood, mostly where the handles meet between chain and wood. The armoire itself is tall and adorned with various carvings in the wood all along the front. Some of the markings look more like writing. Some of them look more like pictures. Most of them look like scribbles, completely illegible by any known language that exists. There’s one symbol in particular that stands out to Sam though, one that he reaches out to touch when he’s standing in front of it.

“I think I know this one,” he says, mostly under his breath. He knows he’s seen this symbol before in some of the books he’s read, most he’d gotten from Bobby’s library. He’s about to fill his brother in on his assumptions until a second in silence makes him realize that something has changed. With his fingers out and touching over the carving he breathes in and spares a quick look to his sides. “Dean. The noises stopped.” It should be alarming.

And even though Sam feels a little tense Dean doesn’t sound too worried about it. “You think it’s because of that thing?” He moves to stand beside Sam in front of the armoire, looking down at the thick stake that’s been jammed through the looped wooden handles and bound under a chain and padlock where some of the goo is still hanging like rope, possibly because it’s lined with some kind of entrails.

“I think,” Sam begins to say, with hesitation as his fingers pan over the grooves of wood. “I think this one is _Enochian_.”

“Enochian?”

“Yeah.” He has to remind himself that his brother isn’t one who’s likely to read up on these things, and tries to explain. “It’s kind of like angel-speak, only back in the late 1500s it was said to be used as communication; how angels were said to communicate with humans, specifically. At least that’s the best ‘biblical’ standpoint in most discussions today. I’m sure it was different back then.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You are such a nerd, you know that?” He flashes his light across Sam’s face with a light hearted sneer.

Sam only flinches as the light hits his eyes, glad when Dean moves it away. “What, you’ve never heard of the Book of Enoch? Not even from Dad?”

“He never mentioned anything about any of that holy crap. Why would he? We hunt _monsters_ , Sam, not angels.”

Sam just rolls his shoulders. “It was in his _journal_ , Dean. What, did you just skip over those pages?”

“Probably,” he admits. “We’ve got nothing to do with any of that biblical stuff. Now come on, if you know what that thing means then speak up. We aren’t getting any younger and this place still reeks of death. Let’s get this over with so we can get the hell out of here.”

“Alright, fine.” Sam’s a little agitated because he actually wanted to explain more, but he gets it. Whatever. Dean’s not interested and Sam’s ok with that. He turns his attention back to the wooden carving that first grabbed his attention, remembering back to the many symbols and meanings he’d once tried to learn. This one seems strangely familiar.

Then, he remembers why. “It looks like a binding spell. Not one you might think of by tradition though, because I don’t think it’s used to keep something _in_ so much as it’s used to keep something _out_.”

Something cold like apprehension settles in the room. “Out, like?”

Sam’s about to make a guess when suddenly the scratching begins again; it’s hesitant, light. Both boys hold their breath at the sound of it. Dean shines his light in front of them. Now that they can actually see what’s happening they know now that the noises are coming from _inside_ the armoire. It looks like something’s pushing out, not at all hard though because the wooden doors are barely moving forward, but moving none the less. What little movement they do make rattles the stake and presses it tighter against the handles. No sound makes it out from inside, or tries to. But Sam thinks he can almost hear shuffling inside.

Well, they’re going to have to open it eventually. Either by curiosity or other.

There’s a pause between the sounds where both hunters share a knowingness between them. They set their flashlights on the floor at their feet and pointed toward the armoire while they grab their weapons of choice, nodding in silent affirmation to one another.

“On the count of three?” Sam asks. He’s got a small pouch of salt ready in one hand and the flask of what’s left of the holy water in his other. He doesn’t need to see Dean’s nod to know that they’re both on the same page. And so Sam counts, keeping his voice hushed. They brace themselves for impact.

 _One_ , _two_ , and on _three_ there’s a moment of uncertainty where both of them suck in a breath.

Dean shoots the lock from the chain and rips the chain free, along with the stake just as Sam grips the handles on the armoire. Together they manage it open, with Dean yanking and Sam pulling. The heavy wooden stake drops to the floor, and with the sounds of it Dean rethinks his strategy and decides he wants to see better, bends down to scoop up his flashlight while he steadies the gun in his hand and tucks away his knife. Sam’s readying the rock salt and uncapping the holy water by the time they’re able to see inside.

But as fate goes it’s not quite as dramatic as they’d expected it to be. Maybe because there’s only a body inside—human, from what they can see; one that’s not taking any active approach to get at them, and one that looks lethargic and too weak to even try. It’s pale and lanky and covered in blood. It’s most definitely male.

The bosy visibly quakes when the doors fling open, shoulders hunched and face adverted against drawn up knees with hands captured against a trembling chest. Those hands quickly rise to cover the sides of his face as the new air hits him. It gives a better view of the gashes, scrapes, and bruises that are lining his skin, places that have either been sliced open through fabric or places that are scarcely covered at all. It’s not terribly bad, but it’s enough to catalog that there had been a fight of some kind. And honestly speaking, a thin pair of blue pajama pants and a cotton gray shirt isn’t the best ensemble to wear to a fight—especially not to whatever the hell happened here. That’s like asking for stitches, which Dean is starting to think the guy needs the more he looks at him. There’s a nasty gash over his side that’s still wide open and dark around the edges. There’s no way it’s going to close on its own.

For a moment both hunters just stare, trying to evaluate exactly what it is in front of them, trying to make sense of what they’re seeing. A demon, maybe, inside a vessel? Maybe this someone had been possessed and the family had locked him inside for protection, thinking it would somehow dispel the demon. It’s a good possibility given the nature of the weird enochian symbol. And angelic spells hold the most power against demons.

But there’s something metallic and bloody still clenched between trembling fingers, in the hand that might have been against the door when it had been closed. The object looks kind of like a hook or a screw, but not entirely. The shape isn’t exactly common to any household item, which makes Dean think it might be a random part from somewhere else, perhaps even from inside the armoire. It paints a picture that he’d been trying to get out, using conventional means.

Their mystery guy might appear helpless, but Dean knows better.

“Don’t move,” He warns, trigger finger tense and ready on his gun. He contemplates threatening with the silver bullets in case it’s a shifter, skinwalker, or a werewolf—just in case— but in the end he thinks maybe it best to hold off. He’s not sure why yet. Curiosity, maybe?

The guy’s holding himself not unlike a normal human would under the same circumstances, looking every bit drawn up and tight against himself and completely vulnerable. He’s got his eyes closed and his expression pulled taut. His lips are dry and quivering with the need to move, almost like he wants to speak but can’t find the strength to.

For a demon, Dean finds all of this very bizarre. He avoids the immediate possibility of ‘human’, still considering this ‘creature behavior’. He doesn’t want to get to thinking that maybe there actually is a possibility that this guy’s a human just yet. He can’t let his guard slip just because of humanitarian issues. He can’t take that risk, especially when they don’t even know what they’re dealing with here.

Sam tosses a good shake of holy water at the body inside, since it’s the easiest and one of the less destructive tests to prove one’s humanity. Or lack thereof. Neither of them knows what they’re expecting, but a flinch certainly isn’t what they were thinking of. Dean still has his gun up and aimed, reflexes ready for rapid fire should whatever this thing is decide to join the land of the living again. But Sam continues to empty the flask with a final shake and this time he doesn’t even flinch.

The guy looks tired even through closed eyes. He looks fatigued. Sam and Dean both find themselves wondering if it’s because of some kind of spell that’s merely weakened whatever he might be—assuming he’s not human, because he’s not reacting much. Not paying attention even. He’s simply there.

Dean’s determined to get some kind of a response, just to get a better idea of what they could be dealing with. His repositions his gun and his flashlight so that he can grab his knife and jerks forward, the clean cut of metal swiping across the stranger’s forearm. The wound is deep enough that blood flows and the guy flinches big time, grunts through the pain and sucks in a breath, but he doesn’t make a move to stop Dean from making another cut. And he doesn’t move to tend to the cut already there either. He still doesn’t open his eyes or make any attempt to look at either of them. He still doesn’t lash out.

He does swallow twice however, coughing a bit when he tries to talk. Then more swallowing. His whole body is shaking by now. They might get an answer if they wait long enough, but Dean’s not up for waiting. “Salt it, Sam.”

That’s when their stranger finally does look up, lifts his head and inclines it in their direction. His eyes open for the first time, and the shape of them looks wholly shocked, his expression strangely relieved. His hands fall between his chest and his knees. Dean aims his flashlight and impossibly crystalline eyes stare out past the blood and the luminescent darkness, hardly blinking and tinted white. His pupils don’t retract against the intensity of the light. And as he looks up it almost looks as though he’s looking at Sam. But not quite. Something’s off about the stare and it’s not just the fact that his eyes aren’t directly focused. There are clear dark circles under his eyes, the skin red-rimmed and a little puffy along the edges of where his eyes sit in his sockets.

Sam reacts and instantly regrets it, in case this guy’s really human and he’s just made things worse for him. He regrets it the moment he throws a fistful of salt towards his face. He’d been aiming for his open mouth but missed entirely, and this time the guy _does_ react.

With a cracked wail he retreats back into the corner of the armoire as much as he can, bringing his hands back up to his face. And for a split second Dean thinks they may have found their target. _Demon_ , his mind rings out.

Sam’s almost onboard.

But there’s no ghastly tendrils of smoke or demonic aura lifting from him, no storms stirring from outside and no insane cackling. He’s rubbing at the salt that’s scattered over his eyes and it’s the most normal thing he can possibly do. That’s when they start to think differently about it. It’s not something that usually happens when dealing with a demon. Salt in your retina isn’t the high point of any demon’s day but they sure don’t act like a battered child about it. Tears are dampening at the sides of his eyes like an irritation, though it’s not helping much to remove the burn.

“Wait,” The stranger tries to say, the voice omitted sounding a little desperate and a lot wrecked all at once. It sounds raw and unused, parched even. He coughs loudly. “—Human!”

“Nice try, buddy. But I ain’t buying it. So if you’re not a demon then what are you, really?”

The man shakes his head, still coughing and swallowing hard. His lips look blanched and cracked. A hand flutters to his chest. “Wa—” He tries, but Dean is quick to interrupt him with the rest of his rant.

“If you’re not a demon then you’re a ‘Shifter. Or a werewolf. Vamp maybe. You just might not realize it yet. They tend to walk the road of denial a bit longer than the rest of them.” And Dean still isn’t taking any chances. He takes his knife and cuts into his own hand. Blood wells up within the wound and he cradles it, brings it closer inside the armoire and up to the stranger’s mouth and dips his voice down low. “I’ve been around your kind before. You can’t fool me. I know you have to be starving right about now.” He tips his loaded gun closer, making sure the other can hear the click of the rounds locking into place as he presses it to his temple and steadies his own bleeding hand near the other’s mouth. Some of it drips down onto the gray shirt that’s already covered in blood. “Smells good, doesn’t it? Go on, take a bite.”

But he doesn’t take the bait at all. Instead he just looks completely disgusted and a little offended. “Human,” he repeats weakly, canting his head away as much as he’s able to from Dean’s still bleeding hand. He can’t move away too much though considering he’s already backed up into the corner and unable to turn anywhere else. “Don’t.” He says, coughing again. It almost sounds like it hurts to breathe. “Please.” He grounds out.He wears a pained expression and slips a hand up to the base of his throat, where he pats his fingers against his skin. He closes his eyes and parts his lips. Hopefully they won’t fill it with salt again.

It’s a weak gesture, and Sam thinks he finally gets it. He feels like he’s just now noticing the drying paste of spittle at the corners of the stranger’s mouth; a clear sign of dehydration. There’s an almost clear line of it leading down his chin from the corner of his mouth where Sam can only guess he’d been drooling at some point. He can only imagine how dry his throat and tongue must feel now. He’s probably really hungry too; not for blood though, but for actual food. Human food.

“I think he might be telling the truth, Dean,” Sam says, earning him a rather bemused look. “And I think he might be dehydrated. If he’s human, we need to help him. Don’t we have some water in the car?”

Dean wipes the blood from his hand off on the sheets of the bed and cuts off a strip for his wound before tucking his knife away in one of the inner pockets of his jacket. “You really wanna’ help him? Alright, fine. But what if he’s _not_ human?”

“And what if he is and he dies all because we were too afraid to give him a chance?” Sam retorts. He turns his gaze back at the man in the armoire, who looks nothing short of exhausted. “I think we should take that chance. He doesn’t look good.”

Dean gives a slow nod after a while, sticking his lower lip out and looking between his brother and Mystery Man. He opens his mouth, pointing his flashlight directly at Sam. “It’s _not_ fear,” he states. “But fine. I’ll get the water. Don’t you dare let him out of your sights and don’t you dare turn your back on him.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

When Dean leaves and Sam is left alone he takes the time to study to body of the man they’d found more closely. He puts the pouch he’d filled with salt back inside his jacket, opposite of the flask, and lets the light from his flashlight trail over the man’s body. He can see a clear line of bruising and some very odd deep scratches that he hadn’t noticed before, and a few of the cuts that are discolored and coagulated with blood. They look swollen, more than likely very close to getting infected if they aren’t already.

“Hey,” Sam says with as calm a voice as he can muster. “I’m going to help you out, alright?”

Blank eyes look up in the direction of Sam’s voice, his head turning up as it comes closer. He looks clearly unsettled by Sam’s approaching presence. But then he nods, fingers unclenching and legs slowly moving to hang over the side. The position he’d been in for the past week has his muscles instantly cramping and his knees seize up, blood returning to his legs all at once and stinging to high hell. He winces and grabs at them, groaning out in pain.

“Woah, try not to move so fast.”

Sam helps him to sit up inside the armoire better with his legs dangling over the ledge, setting one of his hands over the stranger’s legs. The stranger coughs and it sounds dry and awful. Sam can’t help but feel bad for him. “You’ve been in here the whole time?” He asks. He receives a curt nod in return. “I’m surprised you didn’t die of dehydration, to be honest.I mean, a whole week without any water and you’re still alive? That’s pretty lucky.”

The man shakes his head, coughing again. He reaches behind him with sluggish hands to take hold of the now empty water bottle he’d been holding on to. He holds it out for Sam and hopes that he’s able to see.

“Ah,” Sam says with a hint of a smile. “You cheated.”

He’s pleased to see the tiny little smile that peeks at the corners of the other’s lips in return. “I did,” he rasps out, his voice still raw and unused. Sam pats him lightly on the back to try and ease the pain in his chest.

It’s still very dark in the room and not much is visible. Sam pans his light around the room to get a better look, hopeful that there’s something clean he can use to try and clean the wounds the guy has at least. But there isn’t, Dean having used the only remaining clean spot over the sheets of the bed to clean himself with. He can do nothing more than wait, and so he does, stealing glances at the other guy a few times before turning his eyes back to the macabre scenery of the room. They wait for Dean in silence. And Sam tries hard not to seem too curious.

But it’s sooner than later that he stops looking at the room and just looks at the guy instead. He’s a rather interesting case.

He notes how off in color his eyes look, how glazed over and hazy even his pupils seem. It’s not an ugly sight by any means but the differences in comparison to say, his brother’s eyes, are difficult to explain. Because the stranger’s eyes don’t really resemble and pair of eyes he’s ever seen before. They’re purely unique to him. He suspects he’s blind for sure given his actions, but his eyes aren’t milky like the many stereotypes. They hold the blue color of what Sam guesses is his natural eye color and there’s clear definition of a pupil. Everything just seemed a few shades lighter. And when Sam passed the light over his eyes to test his blind theory he doesn’t react. It makes Sam feel a bit sad for him, somehow. But also relieved. He doesn’t have to see what they do, and if he’s really part of the family he won’t have to see how badly they’ve been mutilated.

When Dean comes back Sam is still standing beside him with his hand on his back. Dean feels a little offended at how much Sam’s let his guard down in just the few minutes he’d left them alone. To see the stranger halfway out his wooden cage and Sam’s weapons hidden from view and a hand over him really doesn’t sit well with him. “What, did you guys have a heart-to-heart and sing about your feelings while I was gone?”

Sam rolls his eyes. He’s purely convinced this guy’s human. “Don’t be insensitive, Dean. He’s really hurt. Did you get the water?” Dean tosses it to him with a scoff, and Sam almost laughs.

The water bottle has already been opened once before and some of it’s already gone from their road trip here but it’s still over half full and will hopefully replenish him enough until they can get more. Sam unscrews the cap and presses the mouth of the bottle to the guy’s lips. “Here, drink this.”

And he does, without question. He allows Sam to hold it too, his own arms lazy with lethargy from both malnourishment and dehydration, and also of disuse. He chokes a little when he swallows too quick, coughing to clear his throat while Sam waits. Then the bottle is back at his lips. He tries to take in it slower, tries to savor the wet feel of it sliding down his throat. He’s never felt so thankful for a drink of water his entire life until this moment.

He’s only able to drink about half before he stops and pulls away, his shrunken stomach feeling a little too full. “Thank you,” he says. It’s barely above a whisper.

The boys wait for him to catch his breath and when he does he breathes out, tense and heavy before asking what he’s been dreading for days in solitude; the fact that no one else has come to let him out. He places both of his hands over his knees after rubbing the lingering sting of salt from his eyes. “Have you found anyone else here?”

“Uh…” Dean kind of shuts down at that question, not sure how to go about it. You find a guy locked in an armoire and on the brink of death and somehow they have to tell him about the mess he’s in, that his family’s in pieces all throughout the house? Dean looks to Sam for some kind of signal, but he looks equally as lost.

“My brother,” the man clarifies, and his voice still sounds hoarse. This time though it’s tinged with something else. Maybe sadness, maybe fear. There’s a whole mess of emotions roiling inside him that the brothers don’t see. “I know…that my parents are probably dead. And I…I don’t expect my brother to have made it out either.”

“So then why do you want to know? Little grotesque to be asking about their bodies, don’t you think?” Dean asks.

“I suppose I’m more hopeful than I should be,” He admits honestly. “Wouldn’t you want to believe it as well, if you were in my predicament?”

Dean sighs and moves in closer, deciding to help the guy rather than oppress him. He’s officially ok with believing he’s human. For now. “Here,” he says, “I’ll help you up.” And avoids the question altogether.

The man does as he is told and tries to put as much effort as he can into lifting himself when Dean weaves an arm around him and pulls him up. And when he’s standing and Dean moves away, he’s not so sure he’ll be able to even stand on his own without the support. His knees still feel sore and he’s still got prickling in his lower legs, and both legs kind of feel numb from lack of use. He takes a few test steps forward and stumbles, but Sam’s there at his side to grab his arm and keep him from falling.

“You got a name?” Dean asks. He watches him take a few more unsteady steps.

There’s a pause before he gets an answer. “…Castiel.”

“Odd name. Doesn’t sound very contemporary.”

The man, Castiel, stops where he’s standing and kneads his toes into the sullied stiffness of the carpet. It feels a bit rough between his toes now. “It’s…a religious name, I suppose; specific to one’s taste.” He waits, and then adds quietly, “I like it.” His tilts his head around the space he’s standing in before he lets his feet carry him to where his closet doors lay open. He grabs for one of his shirts, pulling back at the odd stiffness he can feel in some spots and knows that it must be blood. “My parents were Christian; devout. They believed heavily in the presence of God and his rule in heaven. Both my brother and I carry biblical names, in honor of the Lord’s army of angels.”

Castiel sets a shaking hand over the wooden frame around the closet doors. Dean is keeping his flashlight steady in front of them, with Sam hovering around their new found ‘friend’ in case he falls.

“And yes, I’m blind, in case you were curious. I don’t know what being blind is supposed to look like but my brother has told me many times that my eyes do not look normal. I’m sure it’s easy to spot my difference. I don’t know how much light is around me right now but I’m sure you must have seen my eyes already.” He starts to move his hands around deeper inside the closet until Dean is pulling him back.

“You really don’t want to do that. There’s some gross ass shit everywhere. And some of it we have no clue what it is.”

Sam steps up beside Castiel and pats his shoulder, setting the mostly empty bottle on the nearby dresser and looking at his watch. “Are you alright to move?” Then he looks at Dean. “Because it’s almost dawn and we should probably get out of here soon.”

Castiel is quick to interrupt him, blank eyes pleading to a direction neither Sam nor Dean isn’t even standing in. His eyes are pointed up. “Please, I would like to know if you’ve found Gabriel.”

Sam goes still, almost drowning in Castiel’s sideways expression. And although he knows they shouldn’t dawdle too much he still feels compassion enough to humor him. He knows he would only ask the same if it were him in search of Dean. “Is Gabriel your brother?”

Castiel nods. And Sam purses his lips, breathing out through his nose. “Alright,” he says. They’ve still got an hour or so before sunrise. “I’ll help you look for your brother.” He turns to Dean and hands him a cylindrical container from his pocket. “Here Dean, maybe you should try and get some of that goo in there. Bobby might know something.”

Dean looks disgusted, but takes it anyway. “Yeah, alright. Just be quick.” He almost asks why it has to be him to have to touch the stuff, and why he couldn’t just do the escorting instead. But then he reminds himself that he doesn’t really care much for wasting time playing ‘find the bodies’. They’ve already wasted most of their time on the road with wrong directions and Dean doesn’t have the patience to play any more waiting games. As much as he hates to admit it he’s kind of glad he gets the bit with clean up duty. He doesn’t have to go anywhere else either, because there’s some of the stuff still dripping down the sides of the armoire and all along the floor in front of it.

Surprising really that Castiel hasn’t accidently stepped in any of it.

“Here, I’ll help you,” Sam says as he’s pulling Castiel along and into the hallway. Dean stays behind to collect a sample.

Castiel’s got his hands in front of him with his fingers splayed wide, the tips tapping against the walls and grasping at the open air. It has Sam wondering how often he’s been without a proper tool to use to guide him. He’s not doing too terribly bad without one, but it still slows them down on their path to the next available room. “Don’t you have a cane or something? To help you walk?” Sam’s got his flashlight shining ahead of them, but he knows it won’t help Castiel any.

Castiel gives a quick nod, almost bumping head first into the wall beside his brother’s bedroom door. “I did,” he admits, “but I’m sure it was lost during the fight.” And he knows he’s probably never going to find it. And that’s assuming it’s not still stick in the bulk of whatever it was that had attacked him those days ago.

He walks inside his brother’s room, cautious in not tripping over anything that might not be in its usual place. “Is the room in disarray?” He asks Sam, halting his steps and sliding his feet out to feel around.

“Oddly enough, not really.” And it’s the truth. It looks pretty neat. There’s hardly even any blood to speak of.

But there’s still a body missing and they’ve yet to find it.

Castiel starts at the door frame and walks the length of the room with one hand along the wall and the other outstretched to feel everything and anything he can around him. Sam thinks it’s a bad idea, in case it’s him who bumps into the body of his brother. But there’s not much he can do if Castiel’s this adamant and already mostly around the room already. He’s clearly adamant.

Sam follows his example and searches the perimeters, taking the opposite route of Castiel and hoping to God he finds Gabriel’s body first, if it’s even in this room. It’s only a minute or so that passes in silence between them until that body is found.

Castiel is opening the closet while Sam is checking under the bed, so Sam is only half aware of what’s happening behind him. He doesn’t know that Castiel has unveiled the body of his brother, all crumpled up and tossed in a mess of flesh and bone just inside the white doors of his bedroom closet. What’s left of him is slumped against the corner inside, jaw completely unhinged and with many of his teeth missing. There are puncture wounds all along his torso and a few missing fingers and toes, but unlike the others he’s still got all his limbs. But his clothes are badly tattered.

His skin is torn just as badly and it looks like some of his organs have ruptured from some kind of pressure. The smell that seeps out from that contained space once the doors are completely open is nothing short of rancid. Sam can hear Castiel’s cough and a sound like that of like a gag but it’s muffled. Sam makes the wrong choice in assuming he’s only found another dirty closet and is trying to mask the heavy scent of blood.

But then that scent makes it to where _he’s_ is, still hunched over and looking under the bed when that awful realization hits him. He’s just getting to his knees when he hears another muffled sound, a sob breaking free from Castiel’s throat. And then another one; a wretched sob that isn’t muffled at all. It cuts through the silence like a knife to the gut. And when Sam looks over he can see Castiel’s hands all over the broken body of who he assumes is his brother. He walks closer just as Castiel cups the broken jaw, his fingers running across the facial features of the dead man so delicately that Sam feels it in his heart.

Castiel is shaking. He knew his brother had a very slim chance of survival, but this— having to smell the rot on him and having his fingers touch all the broken parts of a body he used to associate with his brother, to feel a cold, dead body void of warmth and life, and to _know_ that Gabriel is well and truly _gone_ — it’s too much. He coughs loudly through his tears, sobbing out his lament. It echoes in the silence and Sam swallows hard.

Those coughs quickly turn to dry heaving as Castiel’s emotions short circuit and Sam quickly pulls him back like he would a sick animal and turns him, sets him more hunched over on his legs and facing the opposite wall instead of the closet. Not because Castiel will ever see what’s inside, but because Sam doesn’t want to have to look at it while he hears Castiel’s sickness over it.

Castiel’s vomiting before he can even feel it coming out of him, the back of his throat feeling nothing but warm and burning raw. The aftertaste is awful. He retches all the water that he’s just ingested, his stomach muscles contracting to pull up a few good throws of pure stomach acid until he’s dry heaving on the floor and gasping for breath. The aroma of his mess is mighty unpleasant in the small and already foul smelling room.

Sam keeps one hand on his shoulder for any kind of comfort he can give even though he’s starting to feel a little sick himself, hoping it helps to alleviate some of his inner pain. He’s not sure exactly what’s going through his mind, but he knows that whatever it is it’s not pleasant.

Dean is in the doorway with a very sour look on his face by time Castiel’s heaving starts to calm. “I’m pretty sure you just woke the dead with that gagging.”

Castiel is still shaking and swallowing hard, his breathing heavy and erratic. Dean flashes his light only once over him and instantly regrets it. Castiel’s lips are glistening with stomach bile and dripping with whatever fluids he’s heaved up. It’s dripping down onto the carpet, into the puddle he’s leaning over. It’s also splashed a little over his legs and shirt. Dean really doesn’t want to study that image.

And by how Castiel doesn’t look at all calm Dean’s thinks he’s probably about to start heaving again, his body giving him only a momentary rest between all the clenching. Sam feels his heart twist in a knot. “He’s really upset, Dean.”

Dean swallows too, looking like _he_ might be sick if Castiel is again. “Yeah, no kidding.”

The room is stifling now. The air feels much thicker than before and the stink of stomach acid and bile is making Sam’s stomach turn as well. “He needs some fresh air.” _Me too_ , he thinks. And then Sam’s pulling Castiel up from under the backs of his arms, trying to be gentle and lifting him with his own arms hooked up under his armpits. He swings around to Castiel’s left side and grips the side of his waist to steady him. “We can put him in the car while we finish checking out the house.”

Dean’s about to make a comment about not wanting puke in his car, but Castiel’s weakened voice somehow peeks through before he can say anything.

“A chain,” he says. His eyes are closed and he’s begun to sweat. He looks slightly feverish now, his cheeks a little flushed when Sam illuminates his face with his flashlight. “My brother wore a gold chain around his neck. I want to take it with me.”

“Gold?” Sam whispers in question. He stops just before walking them out into the hallway. “How do you know it’s gold?”

There’s a hesitation in Castiel, where he has to swallow again and Sam thinks for the second time within the last few seconds that he’s going to be sick. But then Castiel speaks, and his voice sounds surprisingly steady. His voice is small though, and vulnerable. Sam can only assume it’s because of whatever memory that’s attached.

“I bought it for him when he turned eighteen, as a joke. I told the man who sold it to me that my brother was a big show off, and that I wanted to give him with something that poked fun of his trickster personality. He suggested a golden chain to me.” Castiel’s voice grows softer still and Sam can feel the tremor of sadness as it washes over him. “I guess the joke was on me, because…my brother actually liked it. He never took it off.”

It hurts to remember how long he’d saved up to buy that stupid necklace, and how much thought he’d put into his prank. _Stupid jewelry for a stupid show off._ It hurts because he has to remember that when Gabriel had unveiled the gag gift he’d said it the luster of it had reminded him of a halo. He’d insinuated that Castiel must’ve gotten it for him because of how much of a ‘perfect little angel’ he thinks he is. Gabriel took it as a gift from the heart and not as the elaborate trick that it was. And that really fucking hurts because no matter how many laughs he’s had at Castiel’s expense he still loved his awkward younger brother. And Castiel never really stayed mad at him.

He's mad now though, now that he’s gone; and he won’t be coming back. There would be no more pranks and no more silly little conversations for Castiel to smile about later. There would be no more Gabriel.

“I think…I’m going to be sick again,” Castiel groans out, his voice tense. He tries to swallow around the sudden weakness he feels in his throat. And Sam scrambles to lift him up and pull him out into the hallway. He pays no mind to how he has to drag Castiel feet over the carpet and hardwood, over all the blood and ooze that’s still lain there. He helps him down the stairs without Dean’s assistance with a quick word that he’ll be back. Dean doesn’t follow.

By chance Sam’s able to bring Castiel successfully down the stairs and out into open air before he’s actually sick and without dropping either Castiel or his flashlight, moving him so that he can safely heave over the banister. The bits of liquid that come out are easily hidden by the bushes below, and Sam is thankful even if he doesn’t watch.

This time when they breathe in, it’s fresh air that greets them. And it’s wonderful. They breathe in deep and savor the following moment of calm. Sam gives him the time to recover, reminding him that things will be fine even though he’s not sure why he’s saying it.

Dean comes out moments later in slow and striding steps, once it’s safe to assume Castiel is no longer trying to expel his innards. He’s got a gold chain in his hand, saturated in blood and dark with that same black-blood goop. He’s also got the forgotten water bottle Sam had left on the dresser now in his other hand.

“Did you find the chain?” Castiel asks in worry, without turning around. He’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, I got it. It’s all covered in…stuff though.”

Castiel breathes a sigh, still trying to forget his moment of finding Gabriel in that closet. “Give it to me, please.” He’s got his arm stretched backwards and his fingers flared wide. He doesn’t care what the hell’s on the thing. He just wants it.

“I just told you it’s dirty. You can’t wear it like this. You gotta’ clean it off first.” He walks over and taps the water bottle against Castiel’s shoulder. “Here, wash your mouth out and drink the rest.”

But Castiel shakes his head and pulls his hand back in, his voice firm. He nudges the water bottle back at Dean. “Clean the necklace.”

Sam walks up then, tries to keep his voice calm because he knows Dean’s not really once for patience. “You’re already dehydrated, Castiel. And throwing up only makes it worse. You should listen to Dean and try to drink the water.”

Castiel frowns. He turns to where he think’s Dean is and holds out his hand again. “Fine, but I still want the necklace.”

Dean huffs out agitatedly. “You don’t need it right now. Can’t you wait?”

“No.”

Gabriel’s more important. And even though Castiel’s chest is sore and burning just as much as his throat he refuses to let it go. That chain is the last and only thing he’ll ever have of his brother. It’s not the most life altering thing to want it, he doesn’t think.And Castiel’s still feeling kind of panicky and weak on his feet. He really just wants to feel the weight of that gold resting over his collarbone and feel comfort in knowing that maybe, just maybe Gabriel is with him.

Castiel tries to focus his attention in Dean’s general direction, trying to move his eyes in the right way so that it looks like he’s looking right at him. He knows he’s probably not looking at him at all though and that he probably looks a bit silly, but he still fixes his best stern expression regardless. He hopes Dean will buckle, because he’s really tired and really sore and he just wants to rest now. He doesn’t want to have to fight anymore.

He hears a sigh and some shuffling. Nothing about it sounds off or angry, so Castiel counts his blessings and keeps himself quiet. Then he hears the bottle cap come lose and he knows then that Dean’s given in.

“Thank you,” he tells him, and he’s truly sincere.

Deans scoffs at him and grumbles. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t complain that you’re thirsty.”

Cas smiles, because Dean’s voice is soft and forgiving and he can hear the sloshing of water and the swipe of fabric. Dean is handing him something after that, knocking it against his upper arm to grab his attention. And Castiel grabs for it, missing on his first attempt and grabbing it on the second. It’s both cool from the water and warm with Dean’s residual body heat. He doesn’t waste any time in looping it around his neck and clasping the two end hooks. It’s Gabriel’s necklace.

Dean also hands him the bottle, which he finds still has a little bit of water left in it.

“It’s not much, but it’s enough until I can get more.” There’s a moment of silence that Castiel takes in good stride. He fingers the gold chain while he waits for some kind of instruction. Dean continues, albeit a little ruefully. “There’s a vending machine at the gas station we hit in town. I’ll stop by and grab some more water. Shouldn’t be too long.”

“I’ll finish up here, then,” Sam offers. He’s thankful for Dean’s generosity and knows well to never look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially if said gift horse happens to be his brother.

Castiel can only nod, because there’s nothing else he can do. He figures he’ll probably be following Sam around again so the hunter can finish whatever it is they’d been trying to do in the first place.

“Sounds good,” Dean says. And there’s nothing more. Castiel feels like he’s missing a great deal in their gestures.

A few more moments and the heavy sound of a cars motor rings through the air. Castiel’s not sure but it sounds like an older model, maybe one like his father used to buy with intentions to fix up. He’s used to the distinct hum of older engines. He won’t tell Sam or Dean though. No reason to. Besides, what does it matter?

The sound of that engine fades off into the distance and Castiel finds himself mourning the loss. He keeps one of his hands tight over his necklace. He has to wonder; what are these guys doing here anyway?

Sam taps him on the shoulder. “Do you think you’ll be ok if we go back inside?”

“Maybe,” he answers, unsure. He doesn’t really want to chance being sick again. He’s had enough of that already. But he also knows it might be quicker with him showing Sam the way. “I don’t suppose you have something I can use to block the scent? I don’t know if I can handle the smell so much anymore…”

Sam’s nodding uselessly, hurrying to remove his jacket and handing it to Castiel. “Just hold that over your nose and you should be fine.”

Castiel takes it and presses it to his face, setting the bottle in his hands on the deck and moving beside where he can hear Sam’s voice so that he can follow him back inside, but not before he has the urge to make an unnecessary comment about the possibility of the jacket carrying an unsavory odor too. He smiles to himself, not sure if Sam will get the sarcasm, or the joke. So he keeps that smile to himself under the thick denim fabric and walks back inside ahead of him. He doesn’t need his cane so much here since he knows just about where everything’s at. They’re only going back upstairs and he’s already been up there to know that, for the most part he won’t trip over anything.

He does fell a little sick though when it brings back thoughts of Gabriel. He tries to push them down and lock them from his mind, his fingers firm over the necklace around his neck. But really, he just feels like falling to the floor and sobbing.

He still has to feel around but he’s almost as quick as Sam when he walks up beside him. “Where did you want to go?”

“I guess the only rooms left to check are the bathroom and the last bedroom.” Sam runs a hand through his hair. The smell still hasn’t let up much. “We’ve checked everything else.”

Castiel feels a little apprehensive while he’s walking up the stairs, a hand on the wall and a hand on the wooden banister for support. Blood and something thicker in consistency wets his fingers and coats his palms but he pays it little mind next to all the divots and marks he can feel both along the wall and carved into the wood. It brings him back to a week earlier when the noises began, when he could hear the thumps and the clicks and feel the density in the air around him. He almost feels it now when he reaches the top and pictures how he must’ve looked standing in the bathroom with his cane hidden awkwardly from view and his body as still as a statue. He can’t even begin to imagine what had attacked him that night, or even what made add these marks.

Sam walks ahead of him and into the bathroom while Castiel waits in the hallway against the threshold. It doesn’t take long before Sam is back out and nudging him towards his parent’s room. He tells Castiel that he’s found nothing important, just the same of what they’ve found in every other room. There’d been blood splashed and a bit of a puddle with the sign of a struggle and all the while Castiel can’t help but think ‘ _mine_ ’. He finds himself wondering if his tooth brush is still where he’d left it or if it’d been tossed in the fray. He really can’t remember.

“Did you see a cane anywhere?” he asks Sam while he’s searching through his parent’s room. “It’s my walking stick; it’s mostly silver but it has a blue stripe and a black handle with a feather painted on it.” He thinks about it for a minute and frowns. “I don’t know if it’s a standard look for a walking stick, but that’s what Gabriel always told me.” He might have been lying…

He can hear Sam shuffling through the room, moving things and bumping into the desk with his boots. It occurs to him then for the first time that the lights must be off. So Sam must be using a flashlight. It explains a lot. Like how it’s so difficult to properly search for things. Sam curses sometimes, and Castiel cringes.

“Not that I know of,” Sam says, and it sounds like he’s either bending forward or bending back up. “Do you have any idea where it might be?”

 _Probably still inside whatever it was that attacked me._ “Not really.”

“Not really?” Sam sounds like he’s getting closer.

Castiel turns his head and moves so that Sam can pass him. “I lost it,” he corrects himself. “I don’t know what happened to it.”

He doesn’t give Sam the full story, but he does tell him that he’d been in the bathroom when he was attacked, and that Gabriel had come to help him. He says that he’d lost it sometime before Gabriel came for him. He doesn’t say beyond that or go into any detail.

Sam finishes whatever it was they went back inside for and they’re about to go back outside when Sam stops in the hallway, taking hold of Castiel’s wrist to stop him from reaching the stairs. He looks to the drying bloody trail that leads into the room they found Castiel in. He takes a step back to shine his light over Castiel’s back. It’s relatively clean. Shouldn’t Castiel’s back be covered too?

“Were you dragged to or from your room when this happened? On your back?” He asks. “From the hallway, I mean.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, my brother helped me to walk to my bedroom. He’s the one who put me in that armoire.” He tells him as much as he can without getting emotional about it, explaining that he’d heard his brother outside the armoire chanting something when things got nasty. And it explains the circle of blood and the splash of it against the front of the armoire. But not the trail outside.

It doesn’t add up. Because the trail of blood looks as though it either comes from the stairs and lead’s into Castiel’s room or goes from the room and down the stairs. And although logic points to it being made by Castiel, it wasn’t.

“Why do you ask?”

Sam doesn’t know how to connect the dots, but if Castiel’s brother was really with him when they were attacked and if he’d really been the one to shelter him, the only logical explanation would be that Gabriel was the one who’d been dragged from the room at the time of his murder. But nothing had been dragged from the room. And there wasn’t anything to suggest how Gabriel’s body had been placed inside his closet without a trail. It didn’t look like he’d been killed in that closet. Only set there.

But how? Was he carried? And for what purpose? Why not just leave him in front of the armoire if that’s where he fell?

The possibilities and contradictions make Sam feel uneasy the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes doesn’t add up. They go back outside to where the air is cool and fresh and Castiel hands Sam his jacket back.

Castiel is still without his cane and still without any information on what’s happened to his family, besides the simple fact that he doesn’t have them anymore. And although he’s thankful for the rescue he doesn’t even know who these guys are. Castiel stands outside on the deck for an awkward minute in silence with Sam before he takes a seat down on the top step. He hears Sam quickly following his lead. It feels like it’s been a while that they’ve been back inside and Dean’s still not back.

Sam fidgets, unsure of a topic they can entertain themselves with while waiting for his brother to return. He glances once more at Castiel’s eyes. “So…”

Castiel smiles at the subtle curiosity in his tone, albeit despondently. This is a question he thinks knows very well even before it is asked. “You want to know about my blindness, am I correct?”

“Sorry,” Sam says, admitting that he can’t help but be curious.

Castiel just keeps his smile and sighs. “I knew you would be, as most people are. Well, _hunters_ anyway. They assume it was because of an attack or something. I’ve been told my eyes do not carry the normal look of blindness, though I’m not sure what that means exactly.”

Sam really doesn’t want to sound rude or like he’s prying, but he’s also interested. It’s not often they come across a blind hunter. He has to wonder. “Why would they think it’s because of an attack? It’s more common to be born blind than go blind that way.” But then he thinks about it. “…Was it an attack?”

“No.” Castiel feels for the bottle he’d left behind and twists the cap off for another drink. He empties it in his mouth. “But I wasn’t born this way either.” He caps the bottle and sets it back down on the deck beside him, lacing his fingers under his knees. “You might not want to hear it though. It’s a bit of a boring story.”

Sam shakes his head. There’s nothing else to pass the time, so why not? “I’m up for it, if you’re willing to tell me. I like boring stories.”

That makes Castiel laugh, the sound of it coming out like a huff. “You’re strange.” _Gabriel was strange, too_ , he thinks nostalgically.

Sam is smiling, and even though he can’t see he thinks Castiel can still hear it in his voice. “That’s what my brother always tells me.”

Castiel breathes in and situates himself, closing his eyes through a moment of silence before opening them again. It’s been a while since he’d had to recall the story and every remembrance is like a thorn in his heart when he realizes all that he’s just lost. “When I was two…I had a stroke. My mother said I couldn’t walk for three months afterward, and for nearly a year I would barely open my eyes. She thought it was a form of permanent paralysis.I’ve never really been fully informed of my condition, but I’ve been told that my blindness had been caused by some kind of hemorrhaging in my brain. I don’t know if was because of an illness, the stroke, or because of something already there, but I guess it got so bad that I lost sight in both my eyes before anyone caught that something was wrong.”

“Didn’t your parents take you in for checkups?” Sam is fiddling with his fingers, watching Castiel’s expression change to something more deeply rooted to detachment. Sam knows the hunter lifestyle and knows it was probably a stupid question because neither him nor Dean ever had a checkup either. The only time they ever sought out help was for near death experiences and serious illnesses that couldn’t be dealt with on the road or in motel rooms with over-the-counter medicine.

“My mother claimed she’d taken me to a hospital for help. It was after though, when most of the damage had already been done. The doctors never gave her a good enough explanation other than suggesting I had a ‘fragile constitution’. They told her my body was most likely just weak.” He laughs a little, under his breath. “Sometimes these things just happen. We can only take what we’ve been given and try to make the best of it.” Or at least, that’s what he’s done in the past. He’s not so sure he has the strength to continue on that path anymore.

Castiel tilts his head across the span of the landscape around them to feel the breeze across his face. He goes quiet for a moment in speculation, as if debating on telling more. Sam allows him the time to think. But the more Castiel sits in silence the more Sam really starts to regret ever bringing it up. Castiel looks a little uncomfortable.

Sam decides to speak instead, hoping it will lighten the mood a bit. “Wow, talk about luck.” He quickly tries to remedy his comment though when Castiel expression falls even darker. “In a good way, though. I mean—you know, being a hunter isn’t exactly good luck. It’s like the whole system is cursed and anyone who comes into the life just goes down with it; hunter or not. It’s a miracle you survived.” He thinks of Jess as he says it, feeling an awful pang in his chest and with his voice nearly cracking.

Castiel nods, his expression picking up slightly. “I suppose you’re right.” He wants to add the declaration of ‘I’m a hunter too’, but he thinks maybe it doesn’t matter now. Even if Sam believed him what good would it do?

“…Are you alright now though? Besides the blindness, I mean.”

Castiel thinks about it for a moment, contemplating. “I haven’t had another stroke, if that’s what you’re asking. Sometimes I get really tired, and sometimes I sleep a lot. But then sometimes, I don’t sleep at all.” Then he tries a smile in Sam’s direction, a little upturn of his lips. “But mostly I think it’s just laziness.”

He doesn’t say it, but there’s a lingering thought of ‘ _my brother used to spoil me’_ that almost slips off his tongue. He bites down over the words until they die down in his throat. It’s easier than having to hear the truth of what those words mean, how he has to talk with past terms instead of present.

He almost mentions his brother again to Sam, maybe to pass on a compliment or tell him some useless trait he’d had. But he finds himself asking instead, “Are you and your brother hunters?” He was sure they were, just as sure as they must have been about his blindness. He feels like he needs the confirmation now, to make it real.

Sam pauses. “Uh…yeah. We are.”

His voice is gentle and steady and Castiel finds he really likes it. He thinks, maybe, it’s because it carries a certain softness that his brother’s voice always had, a certain generosity that people generally don’t look for or hear.

“You’re not from around here though, are you? Where are you from?”

Castiel thinks he’s somehow offended him when he doesn’t answer right away. And he can’t see Sam’s face. He doesn’t know if his features are drawn tight or loosened, pulled high or brought down. His fingers itch to feel, to run over them like a question, to feel what others would see. He wants to know how Sam is feeling towards him when he speaks, if he’s hiding his upset or genuinely alright. But he thinks Sam might think it rude of him. So he waits. Even though he’s anxious with the unknowingness of the mood this conversation is creating.

“We don’t really stay in one place too long.” That softness in tone is back, and Castiel thinks maybe he hasn’t directly upset him. It’s really tough to know anything for sure without his fingers to guide his eyes. “We’re travelers.”

There’s also sadness in Sam’s voice, and Castiel can’t help but feel bad about that. It’s probably because he’s had a home and they haven’t. And Castiel doesn’t know too much about other hunters, if having a home is even a common thing in their lifestyle, but he gets the feeling that these two brothers have been dealt a particularly bad hand.

He’s about to probe further, because he’s curious to know what kind of life they live if it’s not been inside a home, but he closes his mouth to the sound of a car rolling up the empty street. It’s the same nostalgic motor from before. And by the change in Sam’s breathing and how abruptly he stands up Castiel can only guess it’s Dean.

Castiel can’t help but feel a moment of bitterness. _At least you still have him._

“Hey, just wait here for a minute, ok?” Sam tells him. He leaves him on the steps and brings him a new bottle of water that Dean hands him, this one cool and fresh and much better than the first. Castiel abandons the other bottle completely, sitting there to himself and drinks.

Sam is already walking back to where Dean has pulled up before the car’s engine even quiets. He’s feeling less awkward with each step that he takes from Castiel. Not because the guy makes him uncomfortable, but because he’s not sure of what to say. Considering all that’s happened to him this past week and today alone, Sam’s afraid that anything he says might be a trigger to upset him right now.

“Took you long enough,” Sam says jokingly once Dean stops the car and steps out.

Dean almost smiles. “Yeah well, I got us some food too since we haven’t eaten yet and I’m starving. And let me tell you, it’s really hard when almost no place is open this late. So cut me some slack.”

Dean shuts the driver door and leans against it, slipping his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. Sam mimics the movement. They both look back to the man on the stairs who isn’t looking at anything in particular.

“So I guess we’re gonna’ have to talk about it sooner or later.” Dean moves to fold his arms over his chest instead of keeping them in his pockets. “You know he can’t come with us. We don’t have the room.”

“We can’t just leave him here either, Dean. I don’t think he has anywhere else to go.”

“Doesn’t he have like, other relatives who can take him in? An aunt, maybe? A step sister? And overly friendly next door neighbor? No one has _only_ -”

“We do,” Sam interjects. “Besides each other we only have Bobby.” He looks down, feeling suddenly uneasy. “Besides, what if he does have other family and they’re not hunters? Do you really think he’d be safe out there without some kind of protection? He’s probably marked now; by whatever it was that killed his brother and parents.”

“So, what then, it’s a good idea to have him tag along? If he _is_ marked then that just means more trouble for us. They locked him in there for a reason, Sam. And we have enough bad luck as it is.”

Sam looks back again at the man they’d pulled from the armoire. He’s pale and weak under the moonlight and shivering slightly in the cool air. He looks very tired. And very uncertain. He thinks that maybe he’s still in shock. “What if it was me, Dean?”

Dean scowls. He hates being guilt tripped. “That’s not the same thing and you know it. Don’t be stupid, Sam, we don’t even know the guy! He’s just some poor blind sap who had a messed up run-in with a ghoul or something and got stuffed in an armoire, ok? It’s not like we have very much to go by here.” He’s making all kinds of hand illustrations to make up for how low he has to keep his voice. “ _We_ become a target if he comes with us. You really want that?”

Sam looks a little unnerved. He brings one of his hands over his face in a long sweep. “No, of course not. But I also think…that he deserves a chance. He’s still alive, and that’s gotta’ count for something.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing. I mean, he’s friggin’ blind. How’s he supposed to help us on hunts if he can’t even see?”

“I’m sure there’s something he can do.”

But they both know there probably isn’t much. Sight is an important job quality for their line of work, and you can’t do much to defend yourself if you can’t even see what’s coming at you. Or where to run if it’s chasing you. Dean just doesn’t have the same faith that his brother seems to carry. He’s pretty sure that if they bring Castiel it will be like toting around extra luggage wherever they go; deadweight, with no special qualities. It would just be them saving another life and not knowing what to do with it. And he would undoubtedly leave the boys with a vulnerable spot. He’s a weak link. And it just doesn’t make sense to Dean to have him tag along, because if they do go down that path then they might all have to pay the price. And are they really willing to sacrifice themselves for sake of one random person while on a hunt?

“There’s another way,” Dean says, and it’s very quiet. “We could get rid of him here. Make it quick and clean and leave him here with the rest of his family.”

Sam stares hard into Dean’s expression, not sure if he understands him right. “You mean…you…are you suggesting _killing_ him?” He fights hard to keep his voice to a minimum. “Dean, we just _saved_ him!”

Dean raises his hands in defense, expression serious. “I don’t know what else to do! I can’t risk our lives because of him, Sam. We don’t even know the guy! And if we leave him here he dies anyway!”

Both of them try their best to keep the conversation to themselves, arguing back and forth like bickering children and neither of them really coming to an equal agreement. And for the most part Castiel is oblivious. But he’s not completely ignorant. He doesn’t need to hear their conversation to assume what’s being discussed. There’s nothing left for him here, he knows that. But there’s not much left away from here either. He stuck now, somewhere in the middle where he’s not sure he belongs. He’s lost everyone, extricated from the only family he’s never known—and if he’s got other relatives he’s never been introduced. He can’t help but feel so alone now that his parents and brother are gone.

His smile is broken and forced when he stands. Castiel is nothing but a burden now. These hunters will only suffer if they take him along, Castiel knows this. And he’s sure it’s not a task they’re willing to take. He sets the half empty water bottle on the edge of the top stair where he’s just been sitting and walks forward, slowly and cautiously out to Sam and Dean. He knows what he should do. He knows what he must choose.

He will decide for them.

He’s sure that the choice he’s about to make is the best possible solution. It’s not one he’s fond of, but he feels like he’s got no other choice. And he’d much prefer that it happen now than later when he knows he won’t feel as brave.

He wears a tentative, pensive look as he walks up to them. But it’s more sullen than anything, knowing. He catches words like _kill_ and _useless_ and _stranger_ , and almost bumps into Sam from behind by accident, his previous suspicions confirmed. “I’m…sorry to interrupt. I was just curious…were you, by any chance…discussing what to do with me? To…kill me, perhaps?”

It’s Sam who looks the most taken aback. He completely misses the first part of his question. “Uh…no. No, of course not.” Sam tries to look innocent before he remembers just who he’s talking to, and the facade drops. Because they were, and Sam wonders if Castiel can understand that somehow. “Why would you think that? I mean, we just _rescued_ you.”

Castiel takes a moment to himself to think before he answers. His tone is careful and guarded, but also grimly at peace. “It’s ok,” he starts, refusing to say _‘I’m sorry’_ instead, and looking equally as ashamed as he is embarrassed. There’s a dollop of self-loathing and shyness in there as well, from what the brothers can tell. “It…wouldn’t be the first time the topic’s been up for discussion.”

Sam thinks that maybe it’s a dark story, and one Castiel would rather not discuss at the moment. And Sam won’t push him for answers. He’s had enough trauma for one day. So Sam lets it go for now, lets it dissolve as he tries to change the subject. Better advert for now. “How’d you hear us from over there anyway?”

Castiel looks wary for a fleeting moment. “Oh.” The tiniest hint of a smile hints at the corner of his mouth. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, if that’s what you thought. Even though I have really good hearing I couldn’t hear what you were discussing. I just…had a feeling.”

“So how’d you know we were talking about, you know, uh...you,” Dean Interrupts in an awkward stutter just as Sam’s about to comment.

“I understand how Hunter’s think. I know the process, and I won’t think ill of you if killing me is ultimately what’s best. I…understand that my handicap might not be very useful to you. And I understand that I am destined to death if I stay here. I assure you though, that I can defend myself. I can still fight.” He swallows thickly, struggling to keep his voice afloat with the sudden urge to prove himself, to be able to live. It’s a losing battle inside his mind and he almost feels himself panicking again. He’s uncertain now and he can’t see how the other two are reacting to his speech. It makes him very self-conscious. “B—but, if you do…decide to kill me…might I make a request?”

“Sure, go ahead.” Dean’s voice takes on a more monotone and surprisingly cavalier tone.

And Castiel suddenly feels like he’s drowning, like these hunters have already made up their minds. The sudden bout of nervousness and distress bubbles inside him and threatens to swallow him whole. He tries to keep it hidden beneath the surface, tries to keep himself calm. He doesn’t know where his eyes are positioned at this point and he doesn’t want to seem weird to them. He tilts his head down and hopes he’s looking more at the ground and less at them.

“…Could you make it quick?” His voice is only quaking a little and he’s proud of that, considering the topic. “I mean, I understand that no death can be ‘pretty’ as my brother used to say. But I think I would much rather…not feel it, if that makes any sense.” He has to take a moment to swallow and recompose himself from within, relaxing his throat muscles so he can get the rest out. “…It just…sounds so very morbid and…uncomfortable. I would like to die as quickly as possible, if you can manage it.”

Sam looks to Dean, but Dean doesn’t get to see the soft look in his expression. He’s not looking his way. He’s still got his eyes locked in Castiel’s direction.

“Sure, sounds easy enough.” Dean says after a tense moment with a shrug. His demeanor is still casual, nonchalant.

And Castiel looks, if at all possible, even more perturbed about that answer. Something akin to a squeak makes it past his parted lips. He crumples inside, feeling defeated.

Maybe he’d had hope that if he gave them his blessing they would deny him and try to help. Or maybe he thought he was ready for that answer if that’s what they’d decided. It makes Sam a little uneasy too, especially with knowing how willingly Castiel accepts it. He slaps his brother in the arm with a scowl, to which Dean grins like a cat.

Even if the difficulty of being blind in the world of a hunter can’t be helped, it shouldn’t ever be a reason to give up or get left behind. Sam wants Castiel to be sure of that.

“We’re not going to kill you, Castiel.”

Dean doesn’t comment and Castiel doesn’t dare move, trying to let those words sink in and calm him. But it doesn’t work out that way. He feels like deadweight in his own skin, alien and foreign against the wind. They stand in awkward silence for agonizingly long minutes. Castiel’s not sure if their exchanging looks or miming motions— he doesn’t know anything about what’s going on. But he feels incredibly awkward just standing there with nothing else to say. He assumes the two brothers are having an entire conversation without words somehow, and that bothers him.

“I guess you’re off the hook for now,” Dean says. And Castiel does not feel comforted.

There’s a bit of a chill in the night air but it only seems to be affecting him. He cringes each time the wind blows their way.

“We should probably get going,” Sam offers, to break the ice. “Before whoever or whatever did this decides to come back.” _And finish the job_ , he thinks. He pats Castiel on the back. “I guess you’re stuck with us for a while, then, until we can figure out what to do with you.”

Castiel’s blank eyes keep their downward gaze. “…Alright.”

His legs feel like lead as he retraces his steps, carefully, back to the familiarity of his walkway and to the top of the stairs where he picks up the water bottle. It’s lightweight and nearly empty but he picks it up like it weighs a ton. He breathes out and turns back before reaching the car, vacant eyes looking up to where his home is, to the place he’s leaving behind even though he can’t see it. It’s bitter nostalgia and anxiety that settles along the base of his neck as the gravity of his new reality sets in.

He’ll never come back. He’ll never see his family again. He’s alone now.

He’s grateful that he longer feels sick over it. But that just might be more depression than distraught settling in. Castiel doesn’t speak at all during his walk back to Sam and Dean. He’s silent, even when a hand grips his wrist halfway through to guide him in the _correct_ direction.

“Here,” Dean says, and hands him a small bundle of clothing. “You can’t exactly walk around like that. Wear these until we can get you something else to wear.”

They help him to remove the tattered clothes he still wears while keeping his naked skin mostly from view out in the streets, where he ends up standing in just his underwear. They wipe most of the blood from his body before helping him into the clothing Dean’s given him to wear. The shirt’s looser than his own and baggy around his waist, but the pants fit better. They hug his hips a little even. It gives Castiel a better vision of what Dean might look like, body wise. Even though that information is something he’ll never need to know.

Someone opens a door for him and nudges him inside while the other goes around the car, and Castiel’s far too preoccupied about everything else and nothing all at to think about how he should’ve probably felt out the height of the car before trying to get in, because he ends up smacking his forehead along the side of the roof as he’s bending down and crawling in. Dean’s thick chuckle from behind him doesn’t make him feel any less embarrassed.

“You alright?” Sam asks from the passenger seat once Castiel is inside and the door shuts beside him. Castiel nods, feeling his forehead for any signs of a welt. He feels a little silly, but thankful he doesn’t have to see if he’s amused or not.

Another car door slams shut, this time from in front of him. “Time to hit the road,” Dean says, and the engine roars to life.

\--------

The inside of the car is surprisingly quiet while they’re on the open road. Castiel is leaning back and resting his face close to the coolness of the window. His blind eyes are open and bleary, unfocused and completely unattached to anything that passes by. He’s feeling tired, exhausted, and emotionally drained. Sam’s offered him something to eat from a bag they’re keeping between the two of them in the front seat, possibly something they’re eating out of. But food is the last thing on Castiel’s mind. He knows he should eat, that it’s already been a week and he’s suffering for it. But his stomach still feels sore and his throat still aches, and he doesn’t want to risk throwing up again. He thinks he’s still too upset to eat. He knows he’d be lucky if he even got anything down right now if the tightness in his throat was any indication.

So he sits back in his little corner of the backseat and just listens, everything a clear ring in his ears. He can hear the crinkling of the bag and rustling of clothing; but it’s surprisingly gentle, like the voices in the front seat or the rolling of the impala’s motor. But then again, it might just be the deep sense of fatigue he’s feeling. The sounds don’t normally bother him as they normally might. They’re more muted, and Castiel is grateful. He thinks he actually drifts off a few times when he blinks too slowly.

He doesn’t allow himself to let his guard down too much, doesn’t forget that he has no idea what to expect from these two hunters. They’re just as much strangers to him as he is to them. And they probably won’t think twice about killing him if they had to. It keeps him awake for most of the trip. He wonders if they’ll drive out somewhere desolate and isolated where no one will find his body, maybe take advantage of him while he’s asleep and drive a knife through his heart. They don’t need him.

He’d like to say he’s over the melodrama, but he’s not. He’s finds his anxiety come back for the whole car ride even despite his lethargy, most of it because he can’t actually _see_ anything. He won’t have any warning signs or cues other than what he can hear or feel. And they don’t really try to talk to him either. They prefer to talk amongst themselves when they choose to talk at all. He doesn’t know if Sam and Dean will take the car ride as a grand time to think over their choice, or if they’ll decide against keeping him alive somewhere down the road. He wishes he could just ask them and be done with it, but fear has his vocal chords crippled. He feels morbid inside his head with these thoughts, pondering how long it will be before a solid answer comes to him.

Castiel ends up falling asleep a few times when the noises go too quiet, when the gentle rumble of the car starts lulls him and the darkness behind his eyes reminds him that there is peace. He awakes with a violent start and a gasp the first time it happens, unaware of the time that’s passed and jostled by the sound of the music newly blaring from the speakers. He makes a comment to the hunters about it, in which Dean replies that it’s not even loud. But Castiel insists, his temples throbbing and the backs of his eyes in pain. Dean turns it down after that.

Only an hour passes between his following naps and each time he wakes he feels progressively worse inside. He feels his chest for a knife and runs shaking hands around the space around him for any changes. It’s all faulty and nothing’s changed. He tries to comfort himself, grips his necklace tight and prays.

It doesn’t help that they make a few pit stops for gas and junk food and linger outside the car with their jumbled words and incessant mumbling to one another that just drives him crazy. If Castiel’s asleep it wakes him. And if they’re talking, Castiel strains to hear through the barriers of glass and distance. There’s even a hum from somewhere in the car when they leave, maybe something residual from the motor or the stereo. And that frustrates him too.

Sam hands him another drink once he’s back inside and he takes it thankfully. It’s the only time he accepts something, and the only item he takes.

Sometimes, the car goes silent and they whisper under their breaths just as they do outside and Castiel’s flustered by how muffled his hearing becomes over the sound of his own hammering heart, the sound of its beating too loud to distinguish what it is the hunters are talking about. It bothers him because he can’t be calm in these moments. Not calm enough to use his better senses, anyway. He does hear a little of the chatter though, when he tries to relax and their conversation comes in more clearly, despite how low their voices are.

A name; Bobby comes in clearly, and some talk of murders, other hunters, and blood. He thinks he also hears something about Leviathan, something about black and something about water. Castiel knows about Leviathan. Gabriel’s told him about them. He’s never come into contact with one though.

Was that what they were suspecting?

Time passes stiflingly slow, and Castiel continues to drift in and out with the blissful absence of music and voices. He takes the other sounds, the sounds of the car a little better, even if they don’t sound as distant as he’d like. He’s too out of it to care anymore.

Sometimes though, when they stop and it’s _not_ for food or gas Castiel thinks he can hear the sound of metal clinking together and heavy boots over gravel. He wonders when he wakes and nothing’s changed if he’d only been imagining it in his sleep. After a while it starts to dig a hole in his sanity.

He just wishes they would tell him _something_ solid so he could quit feeling like he’s waiting.

But then suddenly they’re at their last stop and Castiel has fallen asleep, yet again. It’s the kind of sleep he’s been fighting off the entire car ride. His mind is too far detached from reality, so gone inside himself that he doesn’t hear the boys exit the car or Sam walk away. And when the car doors close the sound of it is surprisingly gentle. No words are exchanged this time between them and he doesn’t get to hear the soft steps of Dean approaching his door or the distant sound of metal scraping against metal. He’s still slumped and unresponsive in the seat when Dean pulls the door open, slow and steady, and peers inside.

He shifts under the sound of Dean when he speaks, but isn’t awake enough to hear the tone or register the words that comes next. The only sound next to the buzzing of the streetlight that’s only a short ways away is a breath. Castiel lifts his head to it, groggy with sleep and senses a bit dulled. He’s not able at all to see the grin.

There is no one else around now with Sam gone away from them. The streetlight flickers twice, almost going out.

And Castiel becomes aware to the feel of a cold weight pressing down over his skin and a hand that comes around his throat. And the only thing he can register behind the realization of it is what he’s now struggling with. His heart is once again pulsing inside his ears.

 _Can’t breathe_.


	3. Late Night Blues

[ _Hey little brother, you gonna’ sleep all day?_ ]

 

_I can’t breathe._

The thought rings loud and clear, frantic and frenzied throughout his mind. It invades his senses until nothing is left but the icy touch of what he knows is suffocation. His heart jumps and he begins to writhe, tries to bat away the oppression against him. At first it doesn’t do much but strengthen that feeling. But then a warm palm laced panic presses down to keep him in place. It’s a little too close to his neck for comfort. Castiel coughs and sputters against the tightness in this throat, terrified of what he cannot see. He’s afraid, and he doesn’t know if he should be trying to call out to one of the brothers for help. Somewhere deep inside a fluttering sense of dread whispers to him that it’s one of the brothers themselves coming to put him out of misery. Though he’d thought himself to be ready for that road should the car ride lead him to it, the thought of it actually happening has Castiel shaking in his seat with fear.

He tries relentlessly to fight off his attacker, and for the most part his skin only connects with thick fabric. He gets a break when he hears a heavy ‘ _oomph’_ after his flailing fists actually manage to hit into something. Hopefully what he’s fighting against is something more human. It might be easier then, Castiel thinks, to get himself out of this mess.

But as he continues to retaliate and try his best to aim in that same spot he notices something…odd about the atmosphere. The sudden strain of panic pounding in his heart dies down a little, and the thundering sound of his own heartbeat lessens enough for a better grasp at the situation. It’s then that he starts to notice how this fight seems rather…dull in comparison to what he’d expected when he’d initially come to. Castiel is dealing most of the damage here.

And then, his heart almost stops completely when he hears a somewhat familiar voice. “Stop! Hey— _Calm down_! It’s just me ,damn it!”

He tries to do just that and calm himself, but it does little to calm the fear inside. His blood is racing. The words around him sound both unnaturally loud and clear in the space Castiel is confined in. Unable to control himself, his eyelids spring open in a panic. His breathing is wild and erratic. He’s virtually flailing in the backseat in an attempt to get away from a hand that he believes is trying to throttle him. He doesn’t know the exact identity or what’s going to happen. Is it really one of the brothers?

Fear clouds his thoughts and sinks deep into his heart. It settles in his chest like a stone set to clog his lungs. Are his eyes even still open? It’s difficult to register the weight of his eyelids when all he’s aware of is what he’s _not_. Is this really happening, right after his saviors had proclaimed him ‘saved’? Has the unknown that had slaughtered his family followed them in an attempt to claim his life as well? Or is this merely a dream he’s yet to awake from?

Another, more dreadful thought passes through him. Could it be that he’s still locked in his armoire and unable to free himself, weak from fatigue and still praying for a drink of water and hoping beyond hope that someone will come spare him the rest of his misery? Is this death that grips him now? Is that why he can’t seem to break through?

The hand at his throat jerks to grasp his shoulder instead, but somehow Castiel still feels it like a tightening noose around his throat.

“Hey!” The voice seems oddly distanced and muddy now. He vaguely wonders if it’s because he’s still in a panic, or because he might be ready to pass out from the stress.

Castiel swings his fist out once again in an attempt to take some sort of advantage. He doesn’t know what he’s aiming at this time or even if he’s able to do anything aside from swinging blindly at this point considering how heavy his limbs feel now but a sudden overwhelming urge to get free consumes him. To his surprise his fist actually connects solidly with something. The hand on his shoulder grips him tighter.

“Damn it, stop with the blows! It’s me, alright? You gotta’ calm down before you pop your top.” Castiel swallows thick, trying to register the words being said. But all he can hear is his ragged breathing. “Castiel,” the voice says again, very stern, and this time Castiel takes his time to inhale. He…knows this voice. Doesn’t he?

“…Dean?” That _is_ one of the brothers, right? The rough and unpredictable one.

“ _Finally_ ,” the voice breathes dramatically.

Dean’s hand pulls away completely, but the whole ordeal somehow has Castiel still feeling breathless. He brings his own hands up against his throat to make sure there’s really nothing else there. He’s somewhat relieved to find the space there empty. It’s just flesh and the top of the shirt he’d been given to wear that he feels under his own shaking fingertips.

“Relax, man,” Dean says a little more comically. “Jesus. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”

But that’s not something that Castiel feels he can control. He can still feel the phantom touches of Dean lingering against his throat where he’s convinced the man’s hand should have never been. It makes Castiel feel weak, too vulnerable with these strangers who have the advantage of sight over him. He feels ashamed now for ever having coveted the label of ‘Hunter’. Maybe he truly is far beyond help now.

Castiel wonders if this is how it will always be if his death is not what the brothers seek. Will he always have to wake up to unpredictable atmospheres and hostile environments before he can catch his bearings? Life seemed so easy to control before…so easy to manipulate. He’d done more than his fair share of helping with his duties as a hunter. Granted, he’d most always been inside his home with said duties.

He could have never predicted this foreign sense of instability with the comings of new beginnings, or what affect new environments might have on him.

_Have I made the wrong choice in going with them?_ Castiel swallows hard against the hammering in his heart, trying to keep his voice steady and free of stutter when he speaks. “What…were you doing to me?” He can’t imagine what kind of expression Dean’s face knots up into.

“I was just trying to check your pulse when you started to freak out.”

Castiel doesn’t feel very convinced. “My jugular is not on that side.” His voice sounds constricted, squeezed between the tension and nervousness in his throat. He swallows again, and Dean must find humor in his horrified expression because he quite nearly laughs. It makes Castiel frown.

“You don’t have to take a specific side to get a pulse, you know. It’s just easier on that side. But you kinda’ had your head leaned—” He leans his own head down over a hunched shoulder in very dramatic illustration. It’s completely lost to Castiel. “—this way, so…I had no choice really.” Dean smiles awkwardly, wide and toothy and Castiel isn’t able to see it. “Ok look—I know it probably wasn’t the best time to do it, but, hey, I couldn’t get you up to move on your own and honestly you looked a little on the dead side. Sam wanted me to check on you, bring you inside.”

“I’m…not sure I understand…is that a joke?” Castiel swallows again, this time feeling the muscles in his throat begin to relax and allowing him to take his first deep breath in. At least he’s not _actually_ being strangled. Even though he’s pretty sure Dean had his whole hand over his neck.

Castiel tries to process what Dean is telling him. He lowers his head and prays to keep his eyes in steady downcast even though he has no real control. His expression is mostly empty. Most of what Dean’s said doesn’t make much sense to him in terms of understanding. Dean’s ways of communication are, as Castiel understands it thus far, eccentric compared to what Castiel is used to. And without being able to see or feel his expressions Castiel’s not really sure how to take his words. A fair amount of his dialogue makes him sound easy going and humorous, but a lot of that is laced with a strange kind of seriousness that makes Castiel feel uneasy. His tone lacks the sort of empathy he’s used to.

It really makes him want to reach out and feel for the answers he seeks over Dean’s face.  He’s pretty sure though that Dean would think him strange, more so than Sam, if he actually did it. Best not to then.

There’s a harshly sounding clap in the air and a shuffling that makes Castiel think Dean is rubbing his hands together. Apparently Dean’s ready to dismiss the issue altogether. “Well, Sam’s already got the key to the room. We should probably head over there ourselves.” He reaches in, across Castiel to grab the straps of the duffle bag he travels with. Castiel recoils instantly, hearing him closing in and quickly but not knowing why or for what purpose.

“Hey now, take it easy. I’m just grabbing my bag. How about we not turn every little thing into a freak out session?”

Castiel sighs out through his nostrils, trying hard not to let the anger he feels seep into his words at the clear mockery. Dean is such a noisy and obnoxious person. “Unlike you, I’m not able to assess what’s happening around me as easily as one with sight can, and certainly not as quickly as you seem to think I am able. In case the information has slipped your mind allow me to remind you that I am blind. It would help if you could at least try to warn me when you do things like that.”

Castiel’s not able to see it, but Dean is clearly taken aback by the comment. There’s a bit of a surprised look to Dean’s features when he nods, his head tilting forward with it. He almost looks proud at being scolded so easily, and by someone who’s not really in any position to be giving out sass. It brings and easy smile to Dean’s face as he contemplates humoring him instead of lecturing him. He’s glad the other’s unable to see it.

_Kid’s got moxie, I’ll give him that._ “Alright, fair enough. So long as you tone down the freak outs. We got enough drama comin’ our way.” Dean makes sure to keep his voice firm. He wants to make sure that Castiel knows he’s got no real power over him.

Castiel gives a curt nod in response as Dean pulls the bag out. “You next,” he says, “Oh, and don’t get any finger prints on the car or I really will have to kill you.” Dean begrudgingly offers an arm out to him and bends it for better gripping, nudging the other man’s shoulder with his elbow and hoping he understands the silent offer.

Castiel runs a hand over the seat as he scoots off of it and climbs out of the impala with one hand braced on the interior of the car door and the other gripping Dean’s forearm. His wounds sting as he moves, his skin pulsing under the burning pain. He winces, but otherwise chooses to ignore it.

It’s Castiel who takes the first step forward, out away from the car, but it’s Dean who pushes the door shut. He doesn’t waste any time at pulling Castiel along. His grip is a little too firm to be of any real comfort. It’s a tad awkward for Castiel this way without being able to see where his feet are heading and his motions aren’t too sturdy with having to depend on someone else’s guidance, but Castiel doesn’t feel like he’s in much of a position to be complaining.

Dean drags him along like that, as one might a ragdoll, away from the car and closer to what Castiel can assume is some kind of hotel they’d chosen for the night. He’s a pretty good mind to assume as well that it will be nothing like the comfort of home.

Castiel sways with the jerky pace Dean’s set and tries to keep his lips sealed tight, even though he’s trying hard to keep up without knocking into the backs of Dean’s shoes or trip over any obstacles he cannot see. He tries to stay positive in telling himself to be grateful that Dean had even offered to help. But Dean’s got this kind of upset pace that has him staggering over his own feet, unconsciously gripping onto Dean’s arm even tighter.

It’s a good thing, Castiel thinks, that they don’t have to cover much distance after that. And apparently, the door is already unlocked an open for them. Had Sam seen them coming? Castiel hasn’t the eyesight to gather the information to answer the questions his mind breeds as of late.

Dean promptly lets go of him and walks ahead and inside the room once they reach the threshold, leaving Castiel to walk the rest himself. It puts a bitter taste to the sentiment, but Castiel reminds himself to be grateful.

Castiel breathes in to steady the shaking in his mind, putting a hand to his chest before reaching out. He takes care in feeling around him this time, not wanting to make a fool of himself like he had while trying to get into the car. His hands slide against the doorframe until he’s safely inside where he can keep a hand over the wall to keep him steady while he tries to map out the room with his other. There’s nothing up high that he can feel, but there’s a table off to the left that his legs bump into and a bed on the right with a short wooden frame. He feels around it until he’s at the other side.

“That’s my bed,” Dean explains. There’s a clear bite to his tone.

Castiel decides not to question him. He gives a curt nod and moves on carefully, his hands patting over the small end table off to the side, and then onto the soft comforter on the other bed. It feels just as the first bed had, with the same short wooden frame. He smiles at how quaint everything seems. His smile drops though, when Dean speaks up again.

“And that’s _Sam’s_.”

It’s clear to Castiel without even asking that what he’s standing in is a room with only two beds, and Dean’s made it very apparent that neither of those beds is meant for Castiel: which makes Castiel an unlucky guest. And a possibly unwelcome one in Dean’s eyes, considering his tone.

Castiel tries not to falter, moving passed the second bed and on towards where a block of empty space sits, where both a microwave and a coffee maker are lain out over some floor cabinets against the wall. There are packets of something along with tiny cups of liquid there, as well as thin sticks and a stack of napkins. Coffee materials, he’s sure; sugar and crème perhaps. “Is the bathroom this way?” He asks carefully, tilting his head up so that Dean might hear him more clearly.

Dean doesn’t sound very interested in helping him though. He sounds rather preoccupied by something else. There’s shuffling and clinking near the beds, and Castiel can only assume he might be unpacking the contents of his bag. “To your left, farther back.”

The bathroom really is where Dean explains it to be, but the room has an awkward layout and he walks back a little too far twice and feeling for a door that isn’t there on the farthest wall before he figures out it’s the wrong wall entirely. He’s not really embarrassed though, all things considered. He’s more upset by Dean’s overall attitude with him, like Castiel’s a burden to both him and his brother just by being there even though they had ample opportunity to leave him behind. Or better yet they could have not decided to so call ‘save’ him. They had supposedly chosen, for now, to take him along.

Maybe the choice really only belonged to one of them.

“Is Sam still outside?” Castiel asks before entering the bathroom, not wanting to walk in on anyone.

There’s a suspicious pause. “Yeah, he’s walking back right now with the rest of our stuff.” Though Castiel’s not too sure how much he can believe him. He doesn’t remember hearing Sam or any interaction between the two brothers. Maybe, he’s just being paranoid.

He lets out a heavy sigh as he enters the bathroom, closing the door gently behind him and fighting to figure out how to lock it before leaning against the old wooden frame. The air inside smells stagnant and uncirculated, though he can’t quite call that unpleasant.

He sits as carefully as he can without making his action apparent against the door, breathing in deep through his nose and then letting it all out through his mouth with an easy breath. The wound along his side flares with new pain, but that doesn’t stop him from hugging his knees to his chest. He’d put a hand to it, but he’s afraid of what he might find. Puss and blood maybe? Bits of his own flesh? Oozing liquids? He tries to gather his thoughts, trying to pull together everything that’s happened since the night his home was invaded. A lot’s happened. And being here now with two hunters he’s never known before has him feeling like he’s in a completely different and obscured world. Everything is new, some of it welcoming and most of it not. Castiel’s never really mourned the loss of his sight since darkness is all he can remember, but if there’s ever a time where he did wish he had his sight it’s now. At least then maybe everything wouldn’t feel so strange and foreboding around him.

Castiel rests his head back against the door, letting heavy lids close over useless eyes. Things have changed so drastically just in the course of a week. He’s lost most of what he’s had, excluding himself. But even then…

_How am I going to get through this? How am I supposed to prove I’m worth anything as a hunter when I can’t even pull myself together?_

Castiel puts his hands over his face and rubs at his skin. Voices vibrate against the door, coming in from the main room. Castiel knows by the sound of them, though muffled, that they’re those of Sam and Dean. Weary, he wonders if they might be talking about him. It makes Castiel frown, because Sam is raising his voice at points and Dean is clearly upset.

Castiel gets to his knees and balances himself, feels for the sink in front of him and uses it for balance as he stands. He knows he shouldn’t spend too much more time alone or they’ll start to question him. And the last thing Castiel wants right now is any kind of spotlight. He’d much rather be forgotten at this point. Maybe then he could mourn in peace. That though is kind of a dead-end road, because he knows if they did leave him his mind would completely crumble. It’s a vicious circle.

It’s Sam’s voice he hears at the other side of the door while he’s feeling over the entirety of the shower. “You alright in there?”

It’s a little surprising, but it’s also comforting. Sam seems less irritable than his brother and less stressful to deal with. “Yes…I’m fine.” But he’s not, really. No matter how badly he wants to believe it. It’s the best he’s currently got though to keep his sanity is check.

“If you’re going to wash up I’d like to take a look at your wounds first, if that’s okay.”

Castiel runs his hands over the sink’s top until he gets to the toilet on the other side and nearly bumps his head on the unexpected cabinet overhead. He doesn’t feel too comfortable with letting them touch him, but really he’s got no other choice. He knows he’s not gravely injured—nothing a few stitches and some alcohol won’t fix, but some of his wounds have started to really bother him and he knows he can’t just let them be. Namely, the one on his side. He knows too that he’s already bled into the clothes Dean’s let him wear. “…I’ll be out in a minute.” He’s still got a full bladder to attend to.

He feels around for the lid to the toilet seat, expecting to have to lift it like he always had at in his home, but it’s already up. He feels for the tissue paper next to wipe down the seat before he’s unbuttoning the jeans he’s wearing and pulling down the zipper. He turns, his eyes staring blankly ahead when he pulls his pants and underwear down past his knees and sits down. His legs are spread enough so that his penis can hang inside the bowl and he can relieve himself without having to make a mess. He only has to pee, but it’s easier this way when he’s not too sure of his surroundings. And beside that he’s too uncomfortable and unsure to try it standing.  He positions one of his hands between the gap of his thighs while he relieves himself, just in case something decides to splash up.

Once he’s done and dressed and his hands are clean he leaves the bathroom. He’s actually surprised no one was there waiting to interrogate him.

“All better?” Dean asks, and it’s in that same tease of a mocking manner that Castiel is finding he really doesn’t like. He assumes Dean’s accompanied it with some kind of strange facial expression or gesture, because Sam gives a humored scoff before telling Dean to ‘cut it out’. Castiel chooses not to answer him, instead giving him more of an open glare to show that he’s not amused.

“Here, uh, Castiel,” Sam says, probably gesturing to him. “You can sit here, in this chair. It shouldn’t take too long.”

Sam helps Castiel once he’s within reach, moving him to sit perfectly in the chair and helping him to remove his shirt. The blood feels sticky on his side as the fabric is pulled from it.

“Yeah, I think this one’s a little infected.” Sam presses his fingers around the wound in his side, apologizing when it causes Castiel to wince and pull away. The skin around the wound is dark and bruising with tints of both green and yellow. It looks very tender, very sore.

Dean makes some off-handed comment about the blood on the shirt Castiel was wearing and Sam reminds him that not only did he know that was going to happen but Dean’s gotten worse on his clothes and somehow they’ve still been able to get the stains out. Dean admits that he just likes to complain. Sam rolls his eyes, and Castiel just sits there with a blank expression, feeling a little lost in translation and waiting for any verbal or physical signals.

Sam pats Castiel’s thigh and grabs the washcloth he’d set on the table, soaking it in the bowl of warm water he’d prepared. “Don’t worry, he’s usually not this big of an ass.”

Dean walks over to the bathroom with the bloody shirt in hand. “Or maybe you’re just used to it,” he says as he walks through, leaving the door open while he scrubs the shirt in what sounds like the sink.

Castiel doesn’t have to strain to hear Sam’s quiet laughter. “It’s possible.”

Sam spends the next hour or so cleaning the wounds on Castiel’s upper body in silence, inspecting and cleaning any others that are on his legs but making sure to tend to the worst of them first. Dean’s finished washing out the shirt and is walking back to where they are before Sam’s got the last of the cuts sterilized with alcohol. The gash on Castiel’s side was the worst and required stitches, and if he’s any kind of lucky that little infection won’t turn into anything serious. Sam prays he doesn’t have _their_ kind of luck.

“Ok, all done,” Sam announces after setting the dirty rag inside the bowl for the last time. He hands the bowl to Dean and gestures toward the bathroom, patting Castiel on the arm to grab his attention. “I’ll go and get you another shirt,” he says. Castiel gets the distinct feeling it’s not going to be one of Dean’s this time.

When Sam has his medical kit put away and comes back it’s with a much softer feeling shirt in hand, one that’s not as stiff and gritty as the last. Castiel feels his way around it when Sam hands it over, rubbing the delicate fabric between his fingers. It feels just like a simple t-shirt without buttons or zippers, no oversized or bunched up collar to climb his neck. Sam takes a dry towel to Castiel’s body, drying the leftover water and alcohol before he slips the shirt over Castiel’s head. Castiel does the rest.

The brothers move on after that, Dean bringing up the topic of the wreck inside Castiel’s home and Sam retrieving his laptop to start on some kind of research. The sound of Sam’s fingers over the keyboard is something Castiel’s used to hearing, remembering how Gabriel’s excited fingers often hit the keys of his own computer too hard.

Dean is moving about the room as the sound continues. “I thought you were gonna’ take a shower?” He says, and Castiel feels like it’s directed at him. He hesitates at first, rubbing his hands down his thighs apprehensively before he slowly gets to his feet. “…I am.” He can hear Dean’s humored scoff as the hunter walks away from him and sits down on one of the old and creaky mattresses. He’s taking off his shoes by the way Castiel can hear them drop haphazardly to the floor. Castiel flinches at the sound. Sam’s fingers tapping over the keyboard of his laptop are the last sounds from the room he hears before he’s inside the bathroom again and closing the door.

He waits inside for a moment with a hand to the collar of the shirt he’s wearing. His thoughts focus only on his breath and the silence surrounding it before he’s even ready to step forward and feel for the bathtub. And when his fingers find the nozzles just above it, right before he turns them to get the water going, he can hear the vibrations of Dean’s little offhanded comment of: _“Might not want to lock the door, because if you go falling and break your neck in there we can’t do a damn thing!”_ Castiel can’t help but make a sour face.

He’s never had much need to keep the bathroom door locked in the past, having much faith in knowing that his family would grant him his privacy. He’s always been careful while bathing, and he’s always been cautious. He’s never had a reason to feel uneasy about any part of this concept.

…until now.

His hands are unsteady as he removes the clothes he’s wearing, his mind all too aware of the possibility of one of the brothers outside walking in on him. For whatever reason. It makes him feel unbearably uncomfortable even though he _knows_ neither of them would do so. He manages himself well enough though, and steps into the tub that’s filling with warm water. He begins the task of washing himself carefully.

 

Out in the room, Sam is sitting at the small desk that’s stationed against the wall. He’s got his laptop out in front of him and he’s typing away, steep in research of a case he’s not sure they have a grasp on yet. He stops typing after a good few minutes and leans back in his chair, his eyebrows knitted together. He doesn’t say anything right away, but his expression alone is enough of a novel to read. Dean is on his back over the bed he’s claimed as his with his eyes closed and his hands laced together over his stomach, clearly not as perturbed.

“I don’t really get it,” Sam says finally. He rubs one of his hands over his face, trying to relieve some of the tension.

Dean doesn’t bother with lifting his eyelids. “Get what?”

“This case. I mean, nothing really makes any sense when you try to put it together.”

Dean idly scratches the end of his eyebrow. He shifts over the blanket, gesturing towards the bathroom with a snort. “You talkin’ about gimpy?”

Sam makes a face, trying to ignore the nickname. “Castiel was still alive when we found him. And the way his family was murdered kind of feels like it might have been done out of spite; for revenge. So why leave a survivor? I don’t think that armoire could have been that difficult to break into.”

“Maybe it was solid oak.”

Sam huffs at his older brother, not really in the mood for his dry humor. “Can you be serious for one second, Dean? Whole families are being murdered and we have hardly anything to go on. They were hunters, Dean. Shouldn’t that make this a little more personal?”

“I guess,” Dean starts, trying to find a more comfortable position and wishing he had a cold beer in his hand. “But worrying about it isn’t going to help us any. We just have to wait and see what happens. Maybe Bobby will know something about that crap we found at the house.”

Sam knows Dean is right, but he can’t help but feel like there’s more to it than that. Maybe a lot more to it. “So we just sit back and wait until more of us get killed? Glad to see you so concerned.” He knows he doesn’t have to tell his brother that they could very well be the next targets if they let themselves be.

“Don’t be such a downer Sammy. You know we can’t do anything about it right now. Waiting is all we _can_ do.”

Same goes back to his research after that, just as Dean goes back to lounging. It’s not an hour later that Castiel is back from his bath, clean and dressed and sitting in another chair beside the cabinet with the aged coffee pot. He’s got nothing else to do but pick at his fingernails now that the focus has gone from the details of his rescue over the night to how the two brothers plan on finding more clues that might stick. He’s feeling awkward again, having felt eyes on him ever since he reappeared from the bathroom. He has a distinct feeling it’s residual conflict from Dean, though he’s not sure why. He makes sure to send him a look of his firm disapproval though, just for good measure.

Castiel knows Dean isn’t particularly happy about him being there. They both know the danger they’ve put themselves in just by bringing an outsider into their group. He knows better than to expect any better treatment than he’s already getting. Rather he should expect it. He’s thankful though that at least one of them holds more sympathy. He might just be able to survive like this.

They’re getting ready for bed now from what Castiel can hear. And that feels awkward too. There’s three people and only two beds and Castiel will be damned if he has to be the one to bring that up and embarrass himself. Is he just supposed to sleep in one of the chairs? Is someone even going to offer him a pillow or something for his troubles? He knows Dean won’t say anything more than he’s already said about the sleeping arrangements so Castiel can only hope Sam thinks to say something. He tries to sit as comfortably as he can while being completely bored and feeling completely awkward all by himself while Sam and Dean talk amongst themselves. It doesn’t help that he’s starting to feel a bit hungry too, though he’s not ready to admit to it. All he can do is sigh.

And then there’s movement, rustling. He’s almost positive that it’s Sam who is moving around the room even without hearing the confirmation in his voice. There’s a very distinct murmur the fabric of the shirt Sam has been wearing makes when he moves. It’s very different from the heavy sound of Dean. Sam tells him he’s trying to set up some kind of makeshift bed for Castiel on the floor at the foot of his bed. Castiel sighs in relief of not having to announce it. And better yet Sam is helping him. He makes sure to thank Sam thoroughly.

The brothers continue to talk quietly, with Dean none too compliant about having to give up some of his clothes to charity for the night. Sam doesn’t see the big deal about it, and even Castiel is getting a little edgy. The sound of Sam moves around the room once more and, after a few passes and exchanged glances from Dean, Sam almost sounds exasperated. It’s clear the two brothers had been talking about more than just the case while Castiel was absent. And with Dean and Castiel at a silent standoff it wasn’t hard for Sam to draw the line between them. They were all still pretty tense.

“I wish I didn’t have to ask, but, what happened between you two?” Castiel imagines that it’s directed at Dean by the nearly sarcastic tone. Castiel can guess that Sam has only been contemplating the hot air between his brother and their newest member to the group up until now.

“Nothing,” is the terse response Dean gives. He clearly doesn’t want to deal with it.

And as Castiel sits there and stares ahead at things his eyes refuse to show him he can’t help but feel a twinge of anger creeping up his spine. Castiel doesn’t like the way Dean functions during conversation—especially conversations that include him; as if Dean suspects Castiel will not speak out and let him go about doing whatever it is he’s going at. Castiel doesn’t like that attitude. He decides to make Dean the victim this time, if only for a moment. He’s more than happy to throw him under the bus if Sam is willing to listen.

He was going to explain his initial panic to waking up the way that he had, but when Dean’s chuckle sounded out through the room Castiel decided on another choice. “You were choking me,” Castiel says, his voice clear and steady and incomprehensibly level.  “In the car, while I was asleep.” It’s a bit of a stretch, especially since he was probably still just a bundle of nerves when he’d woken up and mistook Dean’s actions. He doesn’t really find the concern in himself to worry over it. Dean deserves the heat.

The rustling from Sam comes to an abrupt stop. Silence follows suit. Castiel doesn’t know what’s happening now, but he thinks it might be another silent conversation between the two that he’s yet to bear witness to. And one he never will. Sam’s voice pipes up, bright and confused. Castiel can almost _hear_ him shaking his head in disbelief.  “You were _what_?”

Castiel gets a niggling that Dean is now facing him fully, and not at Sam. There’s the sound of something similar to a magazine being dropped onto a solid surface. “Okay Cas, look, we’ve been through this. I did _not_ try to choke you. I was trying to check your damn pulse because I couldn’t get your ass up and for all I knew you were dead. I checked your forehead for a fever too. Don’t suppose you remember that?”

But Castiel doesn’t. Not really. He’d still been mostly asleep when he’d felt Dean’s hand on his neck. And he doesn’t know who to blame for that yet. If it was an action of malicious intent from Dean or if it was merely himself overreacting because of his anxiety over the whole situation he might never know. He decides that shaking his head is the best option for him, because in all honestly he really doesn’t remember Dean’s hand on his forehead.

The two brothers exchange words after that, Sam telling Dean to back off a bit with Dean trying to blow over the whole situation. He also reminds Castiel that they don’t plan on killing him, and that he can at least rest easy about that. Dean may be a bit of a hard head sometimes but most of what he says should be taken with a grain of salt. Castiel can’t see their facial expressions, so that makes sense. Dean could have some ridiculous smirk permanently plastered over his face for all he knew. There’s no real animosity in the air, just tension. Castiel thinks he feels that the most.

On his way back over Sam pats Castiel’s shoulder. His ‘bed’ is done now, all shirts and an extra blanket with no real pillow to spare. Sam offers him his instead of the rolled up jacket he’d taken from Dean. Castiel refuses it despite how he’d really have liked to take it. He really just wants to try and get along as best he can without causing anymore tension.

The three of them settle down for a few hours of sleep before they’ll need to be up and about again. The two brothers find sleep within the hour of calmness in the room, whereas Castiel isn’t that lucky. It’s not just that he’s just slept that has him feeling more awake than tired. There’s one thing he can’t quite wash from his mind that he’d heard from Dean. And that kind of…bugs him a little. _Cas. He’d called me Cas._  

The jacket he has rolled up under his head feels rough and scratchy and sometimes the zipper catches against his skin when he moves. The clothing he’s laying over and the blanket he’s wrapped in really aren’t any better. It’s a bit on the warm side in the room, too. And silent. It’s far too silent. Silence for him has always bred more memories and thoughts he’s ever cared to think about. Right now he can’t stop thinking about his family and how not even two weeks ago things had been so normal. When he finally falls asleep he dreams of Gabriel and days from his past that didn’t royally suck.

 

\--------

 

_“Sleeping again, little brother? You’re gonna’ gain all that baby fat back if all you do is eat and lounge around like a cat all day.”_

_Castiel grunts and hides his face in the cushions of the couch as though it’s enough to block his older brother out. He hates to have to admit it but he’d been up all night again. He’d been reading though, his fingers poised over the raised bumps over the pages of a book in braille he likes to read. It’s a book on the history of the demons, and he finds it to be the perfect way to pass the time when the rest of the house is silent and he’s unable to sleep. It tends to happen a lot when he finds himself unable to tell what time it is. His body has the same issue, apparently._

_The book he has is also a book that Gabriel had given him sometime after their last hunt. Castiel finds it fascinating to read. It’s got all kinds of knowledge on demons in it, from the many forms they take and how to expel them. Although Castiel hasn’t had ample opportunity to use many of the techniques he’s learned from it he has been able to use the knowledge to ward off those who come knocking._

_“Ignoring me now? I see how it is.” He can tell Gabriel’s trying to sound hurt even though he’s clearly more amused than anything. Castiel tries to let it be and go back to sleep. He still feels insanely tired. He knows he won’t get that luxury though, because he knows Gabriel. And just as Castiel’s guessing his next move Gabriel drops down onto the couch beside his legs. Somehow Castiel can’t find it in him to be angry with him._

_Gabriel leans over and brushes some of Castiel’s longer bangs from his face and more off to the side. He makes a mental note to cut his hair tomorrow. “You been up all night again, Cassie?”_

_“…Unfortunately.” He tried to sound upset, more so about being bothered when he’d rather be left alone to sleep. But Gabriel’s hand hasn’t left him, instead they’re combing through his hair from the different lengths like a finely bristled brush. It feels so soothing that Castiel forgets what the hell he was bothered by in the first place._

_Gabriel stops and picks up the book his brother had been reading. He runs a hand over the cover. He’d been the one who handmade that book for him. And he’s proud that it’s well used. “You really do like this book, don’t you?”_

_Castiel wiggles into a more convenient position. He knows Gabriel is looking at him. He reaches out to feel his brother’s expression, easily finding the easygoing adoration there. He pulls his hand back to his side. “I would like one on angels.”_

_“Angels?” Gabriel snorts in amusement. “Any particular reason? Did I miss some life-altering event you’ve been keeping from me?”_

_“No.” Castiel shakes his head softly, yawning. “They intrigue me,” He states simply. “We know so much about demons and the other creatures on Earth. But what about angels? If there are demons, surely angels must exist as well.”_

_“Hmm.”_

_Castiel decides to change his tune, hoping to get a better answer with the knowledge. “Mom and dad seem to think so, anyway.” Maybe it will earn him the points he needs to get Gabriel to make him another book. There aren’t many in braille he’d like to read, and rarely ones that pertain to their family’s line of work. He knows Gabriel would never admit to it but he’s a bit of a bookworm when it comes to knowledge on the occult. He’s more of a tactical hunter than an oppressive one, one who prides himself more on his wit and strategy than his brute force. Castiel kind of admires that about him. But he’s got too many books that Castiel can’t read and he really wants more than anything to know all the ins and outs even if he’ll never need to. Knowing the definitions and types of wards and spellbinding and what to look for in sound isn’t enough._

_“Of course mom and dad believe in angels. They are Catholic, you know.” The underlying tone of ‘we’re not quite in the same boat’ lingers on his tongue like a bad omen. It’s not uncomfortable to say, especially between them, but at times it can prove to be rather inconvenient._

_Castiel rearranges himself enough to sit up, and Gabriel unconsciously mirrors him. “Maybe they’re right.”_

_Gabriel sets his hands on his brother’s shoulders, a smile spread wide over his lips. “You just want me to make you another book.”_

_“Maybe.”_

_Gabriel laughs this time, and Castiel can’t help but smile at how genuine it sounds. He takes the initiative to rub the back of Castiel’s neck and begins to talk about a few things he’s read upon in the past. He knows it’s a poor substitute and doesn’t answer the question, but as they lean their sides against the sofa and just talk about myths and legends Gabriel thinks he’s doing a fine job at keeping Castiel’s curiosity at bay. Castiel reaches up with both hands to run them over Gabriel’s features as he speaks of tales in which angels may or may not be a part of, to which Gabriel allows him to indulge in._

_He’s touchy with Castiel, just as touchy as Castiel is with him. It allows Castiel to paint a better picture of the conversation they’re having. He can almost feel the mood in the sensation of his fingers and the slow strokes of his thumb at the base of his neck while his brother speaks._

_Gabriel lets him touch his face like a sculptor might a masterpiece in the dark. He doesn’t even flinch under his brother’s fingers when they stop to rest over his lips over a few words._


End file.
